FOUR YEARS 



GREAT BRITAIN 



CALVIN COLTON. 



NEW AND IMPROVED EDITION. 



NEW-YORK: 




PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, 

NO. 82 CLIFF-STREET* 



1 8 3 6\ 



[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by 

Harper & Brothers, 
in the ClerK's Office of the Southern District of New-York.] 



RECENTLY PUBLISHED 



Thoughts on the Religious State of the 
Country; with Reasons for preferring Epis- 
copacy. By the Rev. Calvin Colton. 12mo. 






PREFACE 



THE NEW EDITION. 



The author would be very ungrateful, if he did not 
highly appreciate, and if he should not acknowledge, the 
favour with which the public have been pleased to receive 
his work on Great Britain. He now submits the second 
edition, in a form more economical, and thus better adapted 
for a wider circulation, with corrections of discovered faults, 
and some additions. 

C. Colton. 

New-York, April, 1836. 



INTRODUCTION. 



There are three capital and leading principles, not to 
speak of more, which distinguish American society from 
British and European. These are, an abjuration of mon- 
archy, of an aristocracy, and of a union of religion with the 
arm of secular power. Each of these topics will be found 
prominent on these pages in their place. 

In regard to the last, I have done little else than to ex- 
hibit a chapter of facts, showing the operation, the ten- 
dency, and the results of a union of church and state. Hav- 
ing submitted that chapter to some friends, since it was too 
late to profit by their hints, they have said to me, " This 
is, indeed, a sad picture, and yet a suitable disclosure ; but 
we should like also if you had shown us more of that bright 
side which pure Christianity leads to, and if you had done 
more to secure all minds against a tendency to the conclu- 
sion, that religion is identified with such abuses." 

I am glad that this suggestion affords me an opportunity 
of saying a word here on this point. Perhaps I am wrong ; 
but I believe, from all the observation I have been able to 
make, that Christianity is fully established in the respect 
and affections of the mass of the people of Christendom, 
and that, too, notwithstanding all its corruptions, and all 
the terrible tragedies that have been enacted on the credit 
of its name, and under the sanctions of its authority. By 
consequence, and in the natural course of things, Christi- 
anity may be regarded as established in the favourable 
opinion of the world. I believe that this respect and affec- 
tion can never again be shaken or disturbed. Infidelity 
has seen the worst on the one side, and done the worst on 
its own. It was itself the child of a corrupt religion, and 
has already, by a direct and indirect influence, nearly 
strangled its own parent. Pure Christianity it cannot in- 
jure. Christianity may injure itself, and has done so in 

2 



14 INTRODUCTION. 

no small degree, by not having been divorced more thor- 
oughly from its unhallowed connexions. Christianity owes 
it to itself publicly to enter its disclaimer, and to maintain 
its solemn protest, against all those connexions, which have 
ever proved the means of perverting its institutions, and of 
superstition to its doctrine and ordinances ; which have 
been a scandal to its name, the blighting of its influence, 
and caused the hand of Jehovah's providence to write upon 
its falling temples — " Their glory is departed !" 

The world is made up of so many elements, that no ef» 
ficient measures of reforming and improving society can 
possibly be put in operation, but that, while the mass is 
made better, some minor portions will be made worse, by 
an indirect influence of the very means necessary for the 
greatest good. We cannot strike an effectual blow on the 
corruptions of Christianity, but, peradventure, we shall 
have some, who have no respect for religion, cheering us 
on, and saying, " Ay, that is good ; that is well deserved ;'* 
and not unlikely they will be confirmed in their Deism, 
and die in it. They are beyond our redeeming influence. 
Do what we will, they are lost. It is for the benefit of 
society generally, for the good of the world, that we do 
this. Besides, the scandal of being supposed to have such 
a connexion is a far greater evil than the shock of break- 
ing down and withdrawing the rotten material from the 
building. 

I have shown, by a simple statement of facts, without 
note or comment, or with very little, that a union of church 
and state is treason to religion ; and there I have stopped. 
And does the world need me to tell them that unadulter- 
ated Christianity is worthy of their respect ? If so, I here- 
by discharge myself of that office ; if they want me to 
prove it, though I think it quite a superfluity, I must have 
leave to write another book. " But you might have told 
us more about the actual state and prospects of religion in 
Great Britain." That is a delicate and obnoxious theme, 
because it sets up a comparison. I write for readers in 
general, and not for any particular class. I can, however, 
express myself on that point in this place, and in one sen- 
tence : I think both are necessarily very discouraging, till 
the disadvantages of a connexion of religion with the state 
shall be removed. 

It is easier to tell what a book should be than to make 
it ; what should be put in and what should he kept out, 



INTRODUCTION. 15 

than to be an author that shall steer a course to the satis- 
faction of all. For my own part, I never think it out of 
place to say — corruption is corruption — vice is vice — with- 
out apology. I never fear that Christianity will be injured 
by exposing those who assume its name, and avail them- 
selves of its sanctions, for political and worldly advantage. 
It is the only way to rescue Christianity from the respon- 
sibility of their enormities. 

There are good things in Great Britain, and there are 
also bad things. For nearly four years I have been a 
looker-on in that land. While I abjure all espionage, or 
any motives or modes of observation which the strictest 
delicacy would eschew, it has ever been a principle with 
me, as a spectator of men and things in that country, not 
to be obliged for a hospitality that should silence my 
tongue or embarrass my pen as an American. It is as true 
that " a gift destroyeth the heart," as that " oppression 
maketh a wise man mad ;" and it is remarkable that inspi- 
ration has put these sayings together. It will be in vain 
that our fathers made such sacrifices for a religion un- 
shackled and for civil liberty, if, in visiting our mother- 
country, and witnessing the same influences, to a great ex- 
tent, operating still, we fail to cherish the principles which 
have procured our privileges, and to warn our countrymen 
against the danger of reverting to a like condition. Eng- 
lishmen expect that we shall be Americans ; they would 
think meanly of us if we did not show ourselves such. 
Our country expects it ; and if we are so, conscience 
ought to prompt us to our duty. And yet there are Amer- 
icans who, while visiting England, allow themselves to be 
dined and toasted out of their character. There are radi- 
cal principles of society yet at stake in the world to be 
contended for, if not on the field of blood — which God for- 
bid — yet in that field of influence which the pen and the 
press have opened before us, and into which so many are 
rushing with reckless spirit and ruthless adventure. 

If an American who goes abroad finds reason to satisfy 
himself for becoming less an American than he was before, 
he may keep his opinion, or betray it, or publish it, as he 
shall see fit. If, on the contrary, he is confirmed in his 
character as an American, and conscientiously believes 
that American principles are best, he ought doubtless to be 
permitted, on his own native soil, to use his influence in 
their favour. 



16 INTRODUCTION. 

The abundant materials in my hands, not less impor- 
tant or less interesting than what is here offered to the pub- 
lic — so far as these pages may have any thing of that char- 
acter — would have swelled the work to twice its present 
dimensions, if I could have presumed that so large a book 
would be acceptable, as well for its price as for its matter. 
But my publishers and others, together with my own con- 
victions of the proper extent of works of this kind, have 
advised me to dispense with what would make a small 
volume of statistical information on various subjects, as also 
with a notice of many journeys made and places visited, 
and the discussion of numerous topics of practical impor- 
tance. 

London, which was my home while in England, is a 
world by itself. I have been obliged to content myself 
with general and brief notices of that great metropolis, and 
to reserve the particulars of this field of observation for an- 
other work now in hand, to appear — as I can think of noth- 
ing better or more pertinent — under the title of its own 
notable name — LONDON. 

C. Colton. 
New- York, July, 1835. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 21 

Feelings on leaving one's Country — The Lightning-cloud at Night on 
the Ocean— Style of Packet-ships — William IV. and George Washing- 
ton — Character of Passengers — An Irishman going to America for Gold 
— Ship's Letter-bag, and an Incident — A Sermon, and Conscience — Re- 
markable Celestial Phenomena— A Funeral at Sea — The Shipboy asleep 
on the Mast — A Wreck — Arrival. 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS 33 

Dr. Raffles and the Rothsay Castle— The sombre Aspect of English 
Towns — Comparison of English and American Shipping, Steamers, 
&c. — Comparative Commercial Importance of London and Liverpool — 
A Paradox in English Character — The Liverpool Slave-trade— Docks 
— Customs and Shipping of London and Liverpool — Also of the United 
Kingdom. 

LIVERPOOL AND MANCHESTER RAILROAD 43 

The Trains— A Disaster — An Incident. 

TRAVELLING IN ENGLAND 53 

English and American Stagecoaches — The high state of English Agri- 
culture and Horticulture— The artificial Beauties of English Land- 
scape — Journey from Manchester to London — Curious Names of Inns 
in England — Warren's Blacking — Profits of Empiricism. 

BEST APPROACH TO LONDON 64 

CORONATION OF WILLIAM IV 69 

Comparison with that of George IV.— The Pageant without and within 
— The Regalia — The Ceremonies and Coronation — Festivities and Illu- 
minations^ — Queen Caroline's Disgrace and Death — A Coronation Ban- 
quet—The King's Champion, and his Challenge. 

TOPOGRAPHY AND GENERAL VIEW OF LONDON ... 81 



SOME THINGS IN LONDON 



The Coffee and Dining rooms— The Swedenborgians— London Charity- 
Schools and their Singing in Churches— A Scene at St. Andrew's— 
The Bad System of Hackney-Coaches, &c— Sin in the Law. 
2* 



18 CONTENTS. 

Page 
CRIME AND POLICE OF LONDON 99 

London Dining-hours — A Night Encounter of a suspicious Personage on 
Waterloo Bridge — Another less grave — Crime in London — London 
Police— Thames Tunnel. 

NEWGATE 117 

THE TONGUES, AND A MIRACLE 126 

THE BRITISH PARLIAMENT 132 

Westminster Hall and Parliament Houses — Certain Points of Comparison 
between the British Parliament and the American Congress — Uses of 
the Purse and Mace— The Woolsack— Ministerial and Opposition 
Sides — The Right Reverend Bench both right and wrong — The Com- 
position of the two Houses of Parliament — Parts of the day occupied 
in Session. 

THE MONARCHY AND ARISTOCRACY 143 

The principal and controlling elements of English Society — A European 
Monarchist and an American Republican — British Law above the King 
— History of the British Monarchy — Its Social Influence in connexion 
with the Court — Courts corrupt — They corrupt Society — Expense of 
the British Monarchy — List of the Royal Family — The Aristocracy. 

CHAPEL ROYAL OF ST. JAMES 163 

THE TEMPLE OF BUDDHA 167 

EXTORTIONS OF MENIALS 170 

STONEHENGE 175 

TRAGICAL DEATH OF COLONEL BRERETON .... 177 

FUNERAL OF CLEMENTI 180 

EXCURSION IN SCOTLAND 183 

First impressions on entering Scotland — Scotch national character — 
Holyrood House — Charles X. — Duke de Bordeaux — Dutchess de Berri 
— Queen Mary — Edinburgh — Stirling— Castle Campbell— Rumbling 
Bridge and Devil's Mill— Affecting death of a Brother and Sister — 
Perth — Dunsinane Hill and Birnam Wood — Dunkeld — Grampian Hills 
— The Highlanders — Bagpipes— Inverness — Caledonian Canal — Nep- 
tune's Staircase — Ben Nevis — Staffa and Fingal's Cave — Ben Lomond 
— Loch Lomond — Loch Katrine— and the Trosachs— New Lanark — 
Falls of the Clyde. 

EXCURSION IN IRELAND 222 

A narrow Escape — Dunluce Castle— Giant's Causeway— A Husband's 
Tears— Dublin. 

LONDON BEGGARS 230 



CONTENTS. 19 

Page 
THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND 238 

The King, head of the Church— Episcopal prerogative merged in the 
State — Wealth of the Church of England — Controverted— Difficult to 
be determined — Modes of estimating it— The probable amount— Com- 
pared with the Revenues of States — Comparative expenses of Chris- 
tianity in different Nations — Revenues of the Roman Catholic Church 
— Ecclesiastical Statistics and Revenues of Spain — Ditto of France — 
The English Church aggrandized by a Separation from Rome— Distri- 
bution of the Revenues of the English Church — Church Patronage — 
Enormous Wealth of the English and Irish Bishops— Wealth of the 
Irish Church — Compared with others — The Church and the Army to- 
gether — Tithe Litigations — Lord John Russell's opinion of the Church 
of Ireland — Tithe slaughter of Rathcormac — The sick widow oppress- 
ed — The Rector imposing Tithes on a Dissenting Clergyman's Garden 
— Burden of Tithes on the Poor — A case of Tithe augmentation near 
London — Sale of Church Livings by Public Auction — A remarkable 
Advertisement — The Last Wish of a Dying Woman— Injustice to Dis- 
senters — A Redeeming Feature. 

OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE 265 

RUINS OF ANCIENT ABBEYS 272 

Kirkstall— Bolton — and Fountain's. 

FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN " . 281 

Earl Grey — Lord Brougham — Daniel O'Connell — and Thomas Babbing- 
ton Macauley. 

THE WELSH 306 

Welsh Character — Poetry— Preaching — The Martyr Dog. 

BURDENS OF THE ENGLISH 313 

STEINBERG, THE MURDERER AND SUICIDE 314 

TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH 317 

WINDSOR CASTLE "321 

Kenilworth— Warwick — York Minster — Salisbury Steeple. 

ISLE OF WIGHT 331 

THE ROYAL MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY 339 
THE KING'S LEVEE AND QUEEN'S DRAWING-ROOM . . 345 



FOUR YEARS IN GREAT BRITAIN. 



CROSSING THE ATLANTIC. 



Feelings on leaving one's country— The Lightning-cloud at Night on the 
Ocean— Style of Packet-ships— William IV. and George Washington- 
Character of Passengers — An Irishman going to America for Gold — 
Ship's Letter-bag, and an Incident— A Sermon, and Conscience— Re- 
markable Celestial Phenomena— A Funeral at Sea— The Shipboy 
asleep on the Mast— A Wreck— Arrival. 

On Tuesday, the 9th of August, 1831, we put to sea from 
New- York, with a favourable wind, in the packet-ship Silas 
Richards, for Liverpool. The pilot, having kept the helm 
till we had passed the limit of his jurisdiction, promised us, 
as he dropped down the side of the vessel into his boat, a 
passage of twenty-three days, bade us good-by in fine spirits, 
exhilarating ours, and bore away for another job. 

The first night we found ourselves in a dead calm, drifting 
with the tide on the Long Island shore. A slight breeze, 
however, sprung up in season to save us the necessity of 
throwing out an anchor, and we dropped all traces of land be- 
neath the horizon before the break of day. Let those who 
have left their native shores for the first time judge of the 
thoughts and feelings of some of us, being of that number, 
as we rose to behold naught but heaven and the sea, and to 
think of our rapidly-changing geographical relations. From 
that moment, the wide expanse of waters, the blue arch 
above, clouds, winds, perhaps a tempest, stars, and an occa- 
sional sail, were destined for many days to be our only fa- 
miliar objects. 

On the 12th, between two and four in the morning, as I 
walked the deck — for I often rose to enjoy the night at sea — 
I had the pleasure of witnessing one of the finest exhibitions 
of the lightning-cloud which I ever beheld, without the anx- 
iety of expecting its approach. It rested in distant and 
solemn repose over the Gulf Stream, as the wind bore 
us along in a parallel line with that mysterious current ; and 
there played off its splendours of blazing fire in the quick- 
est and most lively succession all along the eastern horizon, 
as if to please the stars and me, and welcome in the coming 
day. Had the same cloud displayed itself in the west, I 
should have suffered apprehension ; but being advised of the 



22 PACKET-SHIPS. 

fitful and stormy regions impending over the Gulf Stream, 
and feeling the steady and majestic march of our ship under 
a cool and refreshing breeze from the northwest, I had 
nothing to fear, and every thing appropriate to enjoy, by 
such a vision. It was the first scene of the kind, under like cir- 
cumstances, that I had ever witnessed — indescribably grand, 
and differing from similar exhibitions on land, not only by 
the more incessant and more earnest coruscations, but es- 
pecially by their red and angry hues. In the midst of this 
demonstration, the fiery car of day came rushing in, side by 
side, on the left of his rival, and there seemed an actual 
contest between these powers of nature — the first occupant 
to retain its dominion, and the intruder to gain his rightful 
ascendency. Nor was it doubtful. Before the steady and 
increasing blaze of the latter, the darting fires of the cloud 
grew pale and feeble, gradually relaxed their ardour, and 
were at length immersed and quenched in the sea. I ob- 
served on this occasion, as on others, that the twilight of 
the ocean is much more attractive — principally, perhaps, as 
being more ardent — than the twilight of the land. 

New- York and Liverpool packets, as all know who have 
sailed in them, are very commodious and perfect things of the 
kind. No expense is spared in their building, in the finishing 
of the cabins, in their furniture or provisions. Every new 
ship put upon the line is in some sort and particulars an 
improvement on every former one. Some of them are 
indeed superb enough to make a passenger proud, though 
sick, at sea. The tables, too, are most sumptuously sup- 
plied, though they may not, perhaps, in all cases, and in 
every item, be served to the taste of a London or Paris 
gourmand. The sea, however, is often a more offensive 
medicine to these nice and fastidious appetites. " What 
care these roarers for the name of king ?" As little do they 
seek to please the palate. 

The Silas Richards was a ship of excellent proof, though 
not the most elegant on the line in the workmanship and 
furniture of her cabins. But her captain (Holdridge) is a 
public favourite, and well deserving such esteem for his 
good temper, his kindness, and his professional skill. It is 
amusing and interesting to observe the sympathy of a sailor 
with his ship. " Well, captain," said I, one pleasant day, as 
he sat in a chair on the quarter-deck, and was apparently 
absorbed in watching the steady and majestic careering of 
his vessel before a fine breeze, " a penny for your thoughts." 
— " She all but talks," said he ; " she does every thing I bid 
her." The captain, however, was then making his last voy- 
age in the Silas Richards. A new ship was in building for 
him at New-Bedford, Massachusetts, which, he said, was to 
be called William IV. Her name, however, is the George 



THE PASSENGERS. 23 

Washington, in which I returned to New- York, The cap- 
tain informed me, that when William IV. behaved badly in 
itime during the pending of the Reform Bill, it was resolved 
that he should not have the honour intended ; and Washing- 
ion, who had plucked the brightest jewel from his father's 
irown, superseded the son in the christening of one of the 
inest ships that sail on the ocean. Washington was con- 
sistent : he might have been a king ; but he would not tar- 
lish his reputation. 

Our cabin-passengers were fifteen, — all civil, and seeking 
o please throughout the voyage, — an enviable privilege, if 
i may trust the accounts I have received from persons who 
lave had little but annoyance and vexation in crossing the 
Atlantic, in consequence of bad tempers, viciously-disposed 
characters, profane swearers, and gamblers, on board. The 
dose and intimate contact of a ship's cabin renders civility 
md other expressions of good-breeding and habitual kind- 
less indispensable to comfort. To be imprisoned in such a 
)lace with vile persons, for the time necessary to cross a 
vide ocean,,is a great calamity. I have the pleasure to say, 
'. do not recollect a single violation of that law of politeness, 
vhich was defined to me in early life, and which I shall 
lever forget — " a wakeful regard to the feelings of others in 
he intercourse of life." The presence of four ladies of ex- 
emplary manners was itself sufficient to impose restraint 
md decorum on any collection of gentlemen, although such 
nfluence was quite unnecessary to secure the object. 

We had a Philadelphia merchant, his wife, and wife's sis- 
er ; an English lady, resident in America, returning to visit 
ler mother and family connexions in Yorkshire, with a 
inarming little boy; the captain's excellent ] r ady ; a civil 
scotch merchant, who had spent many years in South Amer- 
ca, and seen enough of the rough-and-tumble of life to ap- 
preciate the advantages of civility ; a sprig of English no- 
)ility, as was understood, who was prudent enough to say 
ittle, whatever might have been his thoughts ; a cross-eyed 
lute-blower, of London, who occasionally entertained us 
vith the melodies of his instrument ; a young commercial 
igent, of Bristol, companion of my state-room, with whom 
[ never quarrelled ; a hypochondriac, of London, who scarce- 
y left his berth during the passage ; and some other persons, 
whose characteristics were quite agreeable, but not particu- 
arly important to be specified. We breakfasted, lunched, 
lined, and tea-ed (as the English say) in good fellowship, 
md very regularly ; seldom having a cup of coffee, or bowl 
}f soup, or platter of roast-beef or fowl, or any other dish, 
fall into our lap by a sudden lurch of the ship. The dead- 
lights were not fastened in for once, though for want of it 
i\e had a dash or two of the sea into the stern windows. 



24 THE IRISHMAN. 

Of the steerage-passengers there were some forty to fifty, j 
most of whom were disappointed and homesick English and | 
Irish emigrants, returning from America, to love their native i 
country better than they did before, and to be satisfied to [ 
lay their bones in it. There was one of these poor fellows, I 
an Irishman, who attracted much attention, and excited noi 
little interest in the ship, on account of the simple story he | 
told of his motives in going to America, and of the result. [ 
It is too instructive to be omitted. He said he went to New- j 
York to dig for gold in Gold-street, where he had understood 
there was a great plenty. He declared that he went to the j 
place, and tried a long time with his spade and pickaxe — but J 
found no gold ! So thoroughly, however, was he possessed I 
of the impression, under the influence of which he had gone j 
to America, that he got the notion in his head, after our ship i 
had sailed, that he had made a mistake in the street, and had 
been digging in the wrong place ! " And will you go back 
again V he Avas asked. He was not sure whether he would ; 
but he thought he should advise his brothers to go ! This, 
I think, may be set down for faith with a witness. He was 
perfectly grave, and seemed as honest as any other man that 
ever came from Ireland. Notwithstanding all the disap- 
pointments of our English, Irish, and Scotch friends, who 
have come to seek their fortunes among us, and notwith- 
standing all the discouraging reports that have gone back, 
the faith of the first impression seems to stick by them ; 
and they will at least advise their brothers to go. 

One of the most interesting features of present civiliza- 
tion is the secure and rapid transmission of letters by post 
over the same country, and more especially in passing the 
boundary between one nation and another, where, if we 
please to imagine so, no law exists, and where, it might 
moreover be supposed at first sight, improper meddling and 
depredation might be committed with impunity. But a sec- 
ond consideration will suggest to us, that nations in amity, 
and having commercial intercourse, find urgent reasons of 
public and private interest to maintain a mutual and rigid in- 
ternational jurisdiction to protect the lines of a frontier and 
the highway of the seas. Every vessel that sails on the 
ocean is made responsible somewhere ; and the letter-bag 
of a ship is ordinarily as secure in passing from continent 
to continent, as the mail from London to Liverpool, or from 
New- York to Philadelphia. I have been in England four 
years, have maintained a weekly correspondence with 
America, and yet I have never known a letter in which I 
was interested to fail of the most speedy arrival. I have 
conversed with many commercial and public men in regard 
to this point, whose foreign correspondence has been of long 
continuance, and very extensive, as well as important ; but 



LETTERS CROSSING THE OCEAN. 25 

I never heard of a disappointment from this cause. I once 
had a letter from Cincinnati, Ohio, addressed to me at No. 
9 Amelia-place, London, which might almost as well have 
been directed to No. 9 Amelia-place among the stars ; and 
yet it found me out the third day after its arrival in the me- 
tropolis, having been sent by the twopenny post, as appeared 
by the marks thereon, to nearly every part and suburb of 
that immense city. 

The master of every packet-ship between the ports of the 
United States and those of Great Britain, and I believe of 
every other vessel that floats upon the high seas, is in fact, 
or at least in the construction of law, a sworn postoffice 
agent of the nation to which he owes allegiance.* The 
American packets from New- York to London and Liverpool, 
respectively, carry probably the largest mails of any ships 
in the world — nearly all the correspondence between the 
two countries passing through their letter-bags. In the ship 
George Washington, on my return to New- York, the letters 
were counted, and the number exceeded 3000. The parcels, 
or small packets, are of great bulk, filling several large bags. 

After our ship had been at sea some three or four days, 
the weather being pleasant, the captain opened the letter- 
bags in the.round-house, to discharge his duty as postmaster 
in sorting the letters and parcels for consignment on his 
arrival in port. He turned upon the floor about a cartload 
of parcels, and some bushels of letters — a striking index of 
the amount of correspondence between the United States 
and Great Britain, when it is considered that, besides all the 
merchant-ships, there is a Liverpool packet from and to 
New- York once a week, and one every two weeks between 
London and New- York — all and each sustaining their own 
proportionate share in this transportation. 

Suppose, then, that while the captain is sorting the pack- 
ages and letters, he allows it not improper to amuse the 
passengers sitting and standing round, by reading to them 
the remarkable superscriptions and directions as they hap- 
pen to turn up ; among which are to be found not a few 
genuine Irish bulls from the sons of the Emerald Isle in 
America to their friends at home, as well as many other 
comical things. By-and-by a letter turns up, the seal ot 
which, impressed in wax, reads thus : " Mizpah, Gen. xxxi. 
49." — " This is for you to expound," said the captain, turn- 
ing pleasantly to me. Not being able on the instant to 
recite the passage without book — by which, I suppose, I 
lost some credit — I ran below, and returning with the Bible 
open at the place, read, " Mizpah : the Lord watch between 

* No vessel of Great Britain is called a packet except it belongs to the 
king, or is especially chartered for the transportation of the mail. This 
name indicates its character in this particular as much as the royal mail- 
ccach on the land. 

B 3 



26 A SERMON. 

me and thee, when^we are absent one from another." — " Beau- 
tiful !" said one. " Beautiful !" responded another. " A 
gem! a gem!" exclaimed a third. "A gem!" all responded. 
And surely, the brightest, most precious gem of all, was to 
find in such a place and circle these prompt and full-souled 
expressions of sympathy on the announcement of this sen- 
timent of religion and Christian piety. There were, indeed, 
powerful tendencies to such sympathy in the circumstances 
of us all. For who present, whether going to or from his 
home, did not feel himself separated from those he loved, 
and loved most dear? And who, with a wide and fitful 
ocean pefore him, tossing on its heaving bosom, would not 
feel his dependance, and, looking back or forward to home 
and friends, lift up his aspirations to that high Providence 
who sits enthroned in heaven, and rules the land and sea, 
and breathe to him the sweet and holy prayer — " The Lord 
watch between me and mine, while we are absent one from 
another]" 

And whose was the hand that fixed this stamp of piety 
on this winged messenger of love — of love that grows more 
ardent and more holy, as it is distant and long away from 
its object] The first postmark was Quebec, and directed to 
a quartermaster of the army in London. Was it, then, 
from a wife to a husband \ or from a sister to a brother I 
or what was the relation'? The chirographic style made 
this question dubious, and it remained unsettled ; and of 
course left more scope for the play of imagination, and the 
agreeable waste of much conjecture. But the incident 
itself, and the conversation exhausted upon it, furnished all 
the colloquists of the occasion with a text of frequent ref- 
erence, and I hope imprinted on their hearts more indel- 
ibly a very practical and an ennobling sentiment of piety. 

" Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark untathomed caves of ocean bear ; 
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its fragrance on the desert air." 

This flower diffused its fragrance far and wide ; 

This gem is borne along on ocean's tide, 
And sheds its best effulgence to the eye, 
As swift on wings of love it passes by. 

On Sunday, August 14th, while sitting at breakfast in the 
morning, a gentleman much esteemed, and of prominent 
influence in the cabin, addressed himself to another gentle- 
man, a clergyman, at table, and said, " Sir, we have been 
several days aboard, and this is the Sabbath, and a pleasant 
day. I have consulted our fellow-passengers, and I believe 
I express their common sentiment in requesting from you 
to-day the favour of a sermon, if agreeable to yourself;" at 
the same time turning to the captain and to the company 



CONSCIENCE. 27 

for an expression of their assent, which was immediately 
and unanimously rendered. The service was therefore 
instantly concluded on, notice published through the ship, 
and the bell rung at half past ten o'clock. The place of 
assembly was the round-house, with its windows and doors 
thrown open, so that those who could not get in could hear 
from without. The number of souls on board, including 
cabin-passengers, steerage-passengers, and crew, was about 
seventy. It was gratifying to observe how easy such a 
service can be arranged, and with what decorum it can be 
sustained, even on board a packet-ship. It was still more 
interesting to see the feeling manifested in view of religious 
truths, in such circumstances. 

As the preacher of this day hung over the stern of the 
ship towards the going down of the sun, and was meditating 
alone on that grand object, now about to plunge in the ocean, 
and observing also that ever-attractive scene, the wake of 
the ship, as she dashes onward through the foaming deep, 
leaving a momentary trace of bubbling and whirling eddies, 
breaking the mountain-wave, and seeming to rebuke its 
march and to enforce a pause in its career — els if to express 
astonishment at the temerity of such an intruder, and at the 
violence done to the rights of the sea. In this thoughtful 
mood, one of the cabin-passengers, a young man, approach- 
ed him, begging pardon for interrupting his meditations, and 
began to say, " that he owed an apology in his own behalf, 
and that he was suffering an injustice in the preacher's esti- 
mation." 

" I pray you, sir," said the preacher, " explain yourself." 

He still went on, regardless of this demand, and added, 
much to the surprise of the clergyman, " I bought those 
books at an auction-room. They were struck off to me in 
one parcel the night before I left New- York. I was igno- 
rant of what they were." 

" What books ?" interrupted the clergyman. 

" I intend to destroy them," continued the young gentle- 
man ; " and I should suffer injustice if I allowed you to 
suppose that I had not been better educated, or that I can 
relish such vile trash." 

It turned out, after the parties in this colloquy had come 
to a more perfect understanding, that the books in question 
were of an infidel and otherwise base character. On the 
second or third day of the voyage, while overhauling and 
sorting his luggage in presence of the clergyman, the young 
gentleman had civilly offered him the use of any of his 
books that might please him — of which he had availed him- 
self. As it happened, however, the clergyman's hand had 
not lighted on the bad books. To explain this dialogue, it 
had also happened that the clergyman, in his sermon of 
that day, had taken occasion to make some remarks on the 
B2 



28 REMARKABLE PHENOMENA. 

absurdities of infidelity, and the necessarily vicious state 
of the moral affections that could relish it. The young 
man felt mortified — abased — supposing himself to be di- 
rectly aimed at in these remarks ; and took the opportunity, 
as above, to vindicate himself. " Conscience needs no ac- 
cuser." It was, however, a mutually pleasant interview. 
The clergyman permitted the young gentleman to remain 
under the conviction he had so deeply felt, that the lecture 
was intended expressly for him : first, because it seemed 
to operate so well ; next, because the young man would not 
have believed him, if he had disclosed all the truth ; or, if 
he had believed, being of a lively turn, he would have 
laughed outright, and probably failed to profit by it. 

As we came up from dinner on Sabbath, the 14th, " Look 
at the sun !" — n Look at the sun !" was the instantaneous 
exclamation of numerous voices, every one lifting up hands 
with amazement and turning pale with apprehension. The 
day had been perfectly clear ; not a cloud in the heavens ! 
nor was there one at this moment. Neither had there 
been, nor was there now, any fog; no mist; no floating 
shadow of any of the suspended vapours ; but all the region 
above, even down to the horizon, was entirely vacant of 
these ordinary phenomena. And yet there was a darkness ! 
Nature herself — all nature was eclipsed ! The sun presented 
his dark purple disk to our eye — so darkened as almost to 
unveil the stars. All looked alternately at the sun, and 
then at each other, with a wondering, inquisitive, and fear- 
stricken gaze, seeming to say, " What ! what doth this 
portend ?" It was impossible not to feel that Nature was out 
of her healthful condition — diseased — in distress — in pain 
and agony. So deep was the obscurity over the face of the 
sun, that the eye could gaze upon it steadily without blink- 
ing. The dark spots which have often been observed upon 
his disk were distinctly visible to the naked eye ; and one 
dark, gloomy, evil-boding shade mantled the entire vault 
above and around, as if the day of final doom were about 
to break upon creation ! 

We, who had been unused to the sea, asked the captain 
if these appearances were common. He answered, with 
evident seriousness, that he had never seen the like. It 
was strange to the oldest sailor — to every one on board. 
It was now about five o'clock P. M„ as near as I recollect. 
The cabin-passengers had all been below for two or three 
hours. The mate on duty informed us that these unusual 
symptoms began to appear some two hours before, and had 
been gradually increasing. The face of every one looked 
serious, as if about to be summoned to his last account. 

The wind carried us pleasantly onward, as the sun de- 
clined and disappeared under the same general appearances ; 



FUNERAL AT SEA. 29 

the dark spots upon his disk being visible to the last, with- 
out a single ray of his wonted effulgence to inflict pain 
upon the fixed and open eye. 

The moon was nearly at her full, and came forth under 
the same mantle which had covered the sun in the day. 
But over her face the veil was blue, and most dismally dark. 
The stars laboured to shine, and could scarcely peep out. 
The night was even more gloomy than the day — as all its 
lights seemed just ready to be extinguished. 

Monday, the 15th, was very much the same, more espe- 
cially in the afternoon ; when, for a while, so far as I re- 
member, it was even darker than the day before. And so 
again on Monday night ; and it was not till the third or fourth 
day that the heavens began to wear their natural appear- 
ances. 

I have since incidentally learned by American papers 
that the same phenomena, at the same time, were exhibited 
over all the American seas, and nearly, or quite, over the 
continent. I think that we were on the Banks of New- 
foundland, or in the neighbourhood. 

It will be remembered, that the terrible West India hurri- 
canes happened at this time, when Barbadoes was nearly 
made desolate. I have not the date of these calamities ; 
but they occurred either on one of these days, or imme- 
diately afterward. The phenomena were owing no doubt 
to the state of the atmosphere ; and it was natural to expect 
that nature, thus wrapped, and apparently constrained and 
distressed, would obtain relief by some violent effort. It is 
only remarkable that the violence was not more extensive, 
and more commensurate in its effects with the wide-spread 
suffering in the elements above us, than seemed to be 
experienced. The least that we expected was a share in 
such a consequence ; but it did not overtake us. 

On Sabbath morning, August 21st, the ship's bell rang at 
nine o'clock for a funeral, of which the passengers and crew 
had been previously apprized. The morning was pleasant, 
and the ship under easy sail. The corpse, being that of a 
tall man, having been suitably wrapped in a sack, was lashed 
to a plank so tightly as to develop the entire contour or 
profile of the human form, from head to foot, as it rested on 
supports a little superior to the railing of the ship, with feet 
towards the sea, ready to be plunged into the deep, after 
the appropriate rites of religion should be performed. All 
assembled on deck in presence of the dead, with heads un- 
covered ; the clergyman read a portion of the Scriptures, 
spoke a few words on the occasion, and offered a prayer to 
Heaven; immediately after which, the captain beckoned 
with his hand, and the body was caused to slide gently over 
the side of the vessel ; and down it went into the sea, send- 



.30 SHIPBOY ASLEEP ON THE MAST. 

ing back to our ears the noise of a plunge, which, in the 
circumstances, seemed all funereal — a sound which, me- 
thinks, all who heard must hear a long, long time — a sound 
not to be forgotten. All stood motionless for a moment, in 
silence contemplating the scene, as if bound to the specta- 
cle by thoughts higher than the earth and the sea. Then, 
one by one, each moved away to his post of duty or to his 
place of retirement. But the noise of that plunge, four 
years since, even now rings in my ears ; I hear it when my 
thoughts turn that way — I cannot cease to hear it. To be 
buried in the ocean ! — to sink down and lie on the bottom 
of the mighty deep, till " the sea" shall be bidden to " de- 
liver up the dead that are in it !" Nature shrinks, though 
religion may whisper, 'tis all the same. Who would not 
prefer, if it might be the will of Heaven, to lie down with 
his kindred, where he might be wept by his friends 1 

The man we buried was one of the steerage-passengers, 
an Irishman, about forty years old, who came on board far 
gone with consumption, and friendless, hoping once more to 
see his native land and those he had left behind. The com- 
mon influence of a sea voyage, in aggravating the tenden- 
cies and hastening the termination of this insidious com- 
plaint, anticipated all his calculations, and imposed on us 
the solemn and affecting office of consigning his body to the 
ocean's bed, till the morning of the resurrection. A funeral 
at sea has in it a peculiar solemnity. The body of this man 
was dropped upon a bank, in the middle of the Atlantic, the 
name of which I forget, and of the existence of which I 
was not before apprized. These banks in the ocean, like 
those of Newfoundland, are always indicated by the colour 
of the water — it being rather turbid, and wanting the ap- 
propriate blue of the deep salt sea. As the body was 
weighed down by stone in a sack at the feet, and being de- 
posited over such a bank, it soon found a place of rest, and 
in a few hours we had left it far behind. 

At eleven o'clock this day there was again public worship 
on the deck of the ship, as on the previous Sabbath. 

On Saturday, the 27th, we found ourselves becalmed in 
St. George's Channel, off Kinsale, in sight of land. But in 
the evening the wind sprung up, and by the help of tide we 
made rapid flight towards Liverpool. As if the bard of 
Avon had been a prophet, and we destined to certify the 
truth of his record by finding history in poetry, it is a curi- 
ous fact that, at twelve at night, our shipboy Jack, about 
fifteen years of age, who had shown all the agility of a 
monkey during the voyage, in going aloft and running about 
the rigging, having been perched on the main-topsail yard to 
keep watch for a light, actually fell asleep in that high place, 
nearly opposite the mouth of the river associated with th# 



HOLYHEAD. 31 

poet's name, as having been honoured by his birth upon its 
banks. The sea had risen, and the ship rolled and pitched, 
enough to demand wakefulness in those on duty. 

"Jack, do you see the light?" said the watch. Jack 
made no answer. The call was repeated, and with in- 
creased earnestness, a second and a third time; but Jack 
was still silent! The sailors sprang aloft, and found him 
snoring aloud, as an accompaniment of the winds ! 

" Sleep ! gentle sleep ! 
Wilt thou upon a high and giddy mast 
Seal up the shipboy's eyes, and rock his brains 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge — 
And in the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds, 
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? 
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose 
To the wet seaboy in an hour so rude ; 
And in the calmest and most stillest night, 
With all appliances and means to boot, 
Deny it to a king ?" 

Sabbath morning, the 28th, at sunrise, we nearly brushed 
the naked and rocky bluffs of Holyhead, shooting by them 
like a vision of enchantment, on the wings of a stiff north- 
west breeze ; seeming to turn a corner there, as was indeed 
the fact, buffeting with lusty endeavour a mad and foaming 
tide, as it rushed from the northern to the southern seas 
between England and Ireland. And every mile we gained 
in such a conflict laid before the eye some new aspects of 
rock, and shore, and landscape, and hill and mountain pro- 
file. Nothing can be more beautiful, or bolder and more 
formidable, than the front of Holyhead. Then came the 
Skerry rocks, one group of which is like a range of battle- 
ments, the central one resembling a church, and the light- 
house perched upon it, a steeple in perfection; then the 
opening harbour of Holyhead, and its beautiful little town ; 
then the highly-cultivated hills and plains of Anglesea, with 
numberless fields of grain, just cut and gathered into heaps, 
and resting for the Sabbath before it was gathered in ; the 
hedges, distinctly defining every separate enclosure, greater 
and smaller, regular and irregular ; the lanes of access ; the 
little white cottages and more imposing farmhouses; the 
windmills; small villages and hamlets here and there; 
churches; now a copse of wood, and now another; and 
beyond this checkered vision the irregular and fantastic 
profiles of mountains, the loftier points merged in the 
clouds ; — all, land and sea. lighted up with one of the bright- 
est mornings that ever shone, and the entire and variegated 
jscene rapidly changing appearances, as we were borne 
along the sixty miles from Holyhead to Liverpool, Th0 



32 A WRECK. 

day before, as we lay in St. George's Channel, we saw, but 
indistinctly, through the mist and s:\ioke, and low in the 
distant horizon, some of the elevated portions of the Eme- 
rald Isle. But this morning, the shores, ' plains, hills, and 
mountains of England and Wales burst upon us in their 
loveliest features, and under the hues imparted by the 
brightest sun, after a shoreless vision of eighteen days. 
We often sailed so near the shore as to be able to trace 
with the naked eye the fissures and crude prominences of 
the rocks. 

A little from Holyhead we took a pilot. And then the 
news ! what news 1 Great events were expected from the 
new Parliament and from Poland. But Poland and Parlia- 
ment were soon lost sight of, in the announcement of the 
mournful wreck of the Rothsay Castle, which went to pieces 
some ten days before, at twelve o'clock at night, directly in 
sight of where we were then sailing, and about ninety souls 
of one hundred were supposed to have perished ! Nothing 
of the kind, since the destruction of the Albion, had pro- 
duced so great a sensation. And there was a peculiar ag- 
gravation attending the wreck of the Rothsay Castle which 
can never be healed. We bow in submission to the awful 
providence of God, when his hand is single and alone in af- 
flicting us ; but when the recklessness of man is seen to have 
bereaved us of our friends and dear ones, and in the most 
awful manner, the heart will bleed, and bleed while memory 
lasts, and never be comforted. And so will it be in the 
present instance. That ruthless pushing of opposition in 
the running of stagecoaches and steamers, which rages 
equally in England and in the United States, is burdened 
with no small share of the responsibility of this never-to-be- 
forgotten calamity. And, more aggravating still, that fiend, 
and fitter tenant of a darker world, the unpitying soul of 
brutal intoxication, comes in here to perfect the anguish of 
the recollections of that dreadful night. To lie upon the 
ocean, lashed to fury by the pitiless and maddened winds of 
heaven, under the guidance of the most accomplished and 
best-directed skill of man, in the best craft, is terrible 
enough. But to be obliged to ask mercy of a drunkard in 
that hour — to beseech him to do his duty, and he shall 
growl, and curse, and refuse to act — ! who can depict the 
anxieties of the innocent souls that lie at his feet ! When I 
think of this, I thank God, and I love and respect the man 
who guided our bark across the Atlantic, not only for his 
personal virtues and nautical skill, but that he had reduced 
his whole crew to a total abstinence from ardent spirits, and 
resolved never to allow its use again. 

We came to anchor in the Mersey, before Liverpool, at 
two o'clock P. M., just nineteen days from port to port ; and 
found lodgings in town before four o'clock. 



FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 33 



FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 

Dr. Raffles and the Rothsay Castle— The sombre Aspect of English 
Towns — Comparison of English and American Shipping, Steamers, &c. 
— Comparative Commercial Importance of London and Liverpool — A 
Paradox in English Character — The Liverpool Slave-trade — Docks — 
Custom-house Duties and Shipping of London and Liverpool — Also of 
the United Kingdom. 

Arrived at Liverpool ; my foot planted on the soil once 
dear to our fathers, and associated with a thousand recol- 
lections, scarcely less full of romance than grave and event- 
ful in history ; an ocean passed without a storm, or an anx- 
ious moment, excepting only as occasioned by the extraor- 
dinary celestial phenomena which hung over us for a day or 
two ; lodged comfortably in an English hotel ; and the Sab- 
bath bell summoning a dense population to the worship of 
God ; my mind was easily composed to a state not unlike 
the hallowed peace of a quiet domestic scene. The leaving 
of one's native country is full of interest, and touching to a 
thousand of the better feelings of our nature. The friends 
we love are behind us ; and a sublime and fitful ocean rolls 
before. The first sight of a foreign shore, after many days 
of exposure on the deep, with the prospect of soon gaining 
the shelter of a port, repays in part the sacrifice experienced 
by the recession of the last line of one's own hills. But 
England to an American is not foreign ; it is the land of his 
ancestry; the institutions, the virtue, and the piety which 
have made his country dear were transplanted from this soil. 
Landing upon these shores, he comes to salute that which 
it would be unnatural not to esteem — not to revere. Here 
he finds the same language, the same religion, the same 
modes and customs of society, and like sympathies, opera- 
ting in a like manner, in all the kindlier relations of life. He 
cannot feel that he is abroad ; he is at home. 

We had landed on the Sabbath ; the dawn of the morning 
had espied us from over the rocks of Holyhead; a brisk 
wind, bearing us swiftly into port, admonished the sailors 
of the preparations required for coming to anchor at the 
end of a voyage, and the passengers to collect and arrange 
their scattered luggage for debarkation. All was confusion 
and expectation. The quiet retirement of an inn, in a well- 
ordered town, on the evening of the Christian Sabbath, after 
the active and bustling scene of such a morning, was suffi- 
ciently grateful. 

I remembered Thomas Spencer. The impression of his 
untimely and lamented death was scarcely less in America 
B3 



34 DR. RAFFLES. 

than in England. A wide circle in both countries felt the 
greatness and severity of the bereavement. In America 
we felt it through the hand of his biographer and successor, 
the Rev. Dr. Raffles ; in England the public felt it for what 
they had seen and heard, and they wept again at the recital 
of the story. A stranger at Liverpool, my choice of a place 
of public worship on the evening of this day of my arrival 
was controlled by these recollections of Spencer and Dr. 
Raffles. At six o'clock I wended my way alone and un- 
guided to Great George-street Chapel. As the hour of com- 
mencing worship was half after six, I was in season to obtain 
a good seat by the kind offices of a pew-opener. Soon, 
however, the people began to pour in, in dense columns, till 
I found myself, before the services commenced, standing in 
the aisle with a multitude of gentlemen, to accommodate 
the ladies. After remaining a little in this posture, I re- 
ceived a beck from a venerable gentleman near me, to take 
a seat in his pew, already crammed with a range of fine- 
looking young men and youth, who appeared as if they 
might be his twelve sons, and he the patriarch. " Have 
you room, sir ?" said I. " O yes ; come in." On my right, 
half way the pew, a full-souled-looking young man of 
twenty-five showed me much civility when I first sat down 
and during the service. 

It was a grateful hour, and grateful every circumstance, 
after the scenes of a sea-voyage, and after such an unsab- 
bath-like day, to find myself seated in a modest but spacious 
church, and one of a congregation of two thousand in a 
foreign land ; to hear my native tongue in its purest forms ; 
to have opened and read the same Bible, to listen to the 
same hymns and the same music, as in my own country ; 
the dress and manners of the people the same, and with no 
circumstance to admonish me of a change of place from 
one part of the globe to another. It was like a dream ; for 
that day three weeks (and far less time in seeming) I was 
worshipping with a Christian congregation in New- York. 

At the appointed hour a clergyman ascended the pulpit, 
knelt, and offered his silent prayer — a custom most befitting 
and impressive, but not practised in America, except by two 
denominations ; and then opening the Bible, he read the 
twenty-fourth chapter of Matthew with great pertinency 
and pathos of expression, in silvery and subduing tones. 
From the first opening of his lips, he seemed moved from 
his inmost soul. I could have imagined, though ignorant 
of the cause, that the deep fountains of feeling were opened 
within him, and that some mighty sympathies were work- 
ing there. And I thought, too, that the congregation were 
ready to be with him in feeling ; but still I knew not the 
occasion. " Is that Dr. Raffles ?" said I in a whisper to the 
gentleman on my right, as the preacher began to read. 



A FUNERAL SERMON. 35 

" Yes, sir," was the answer. After the usual introductory 
services, and a prayer, which breathed the soul, and seemed 
communion with the skies, a fellowship with heaven, and 
fitted well to raise the heart that wished to be with God, the 
following text was announced : — " Therefore, be ye also 
ready ; for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man 
cometh." 

" Nearly twenty years have rolled away since I have had 
the pastoral charge of this congregation," said the preacher 
(and these were his first words after reading the text), "and 
never have I been called to mingle my tears with the be- 
reaved of my charge, in any instance, for a work of death 
so astounding to private and public sympathy, as in the late 
and ill-fated doom of the Rothsay Castle." And here, at 
the end of the first sentence, the secret was all opened to 
me, and I felt myself at once a mourner with the mourning, 
and was ready to claim a full part in the deploring enact- 
ment of that solemn hour. For I had passed in full view 
of the scene of death, and heard the story for the first time 
that very day. Three members of Dr. Raffles's church, 
Mr. Joseph Lucas, his wife, and their daughter, were of the 
number who perished ; and that evening it had devolved on 
the pastor to stand up before a sympathizing people to tell 
the story, and tiy to impress them with the practical lesson 
of the awful event ; and he did tell the story in the outset — 
the simple story. He did not begin a great way off, and 
deliver a lecture on abstract truths, till his hearers were 
tired of a discussion, as is too apt to be the fashion on such 
occasions ; but he told the simple story, as the exordium of 
his sermon. He briefly noticed the character of those 
whose sudden and awful death they lamented ; traced the 
pathway of their spirits, through the stormy waves of the 
ocean to the haven of eternal rest, and then applied himself 
to the proper theme of his text, in application to his hearers, 
and in view of the mournful event which had suggested it 
— " Be ye also ready." 

I had heard of Dr. Raffles, and entertained a high opinion 
of his powers. He is unquestionably an eloquent man ; and 
a man of good sterling sense, of pure taste, and sound dis- 
cretion. He is sure to be pertinent ; and in these attributes, 
and others akin to them, great. He demonstrates a perfect 
honesty. It is his full soul that speaks out, and no one 
doubts it — all feel it ; and this is eloquence. Take, then, a 
theme like the fate of the Rothsay Castle, and give it such 
a man, before an audience whose acquaintances and dear 
ones perished there ; and let him bring heaven and earth, 
time and eternity, probation and the judgment, all together, 
as they stand connected with such a scone, in the light of 
Christianity — and none who hear can be indifferent. And 
there were none indifferent on that occasion, I dare to say. 



36 FUNERAL SERMON. 

It was not the voice of man alone. Man only gave a pal- 
pable utterance to the voice of God. 

In the midst of the sermon, and at a moment when the 
minds and hearts of the audience were entirely captive, un- 
der the guidance of the preacher, and with him meditating 
on death, judgment, and eternity — abstracted from earth, 
and rapt in thought of a coming world — a sudden, protracted, 
and apparently an expiring groan came from a distant part of 
the galleries, reaching every part of the house, and penetra- 
ting every heart. It was a startling, thrilling expression of 
distress, augmented a thousand-fold by the circumstances. 
The self-possession of the preacher, however, in a measure 
quieted the apprehensions of the audience, by stating that it 
was a person taken in a fit ; and the individual having been 
carried out, after a pause of two or three minutes the doctor 
proceeded. What was the real cause of suffering I know 
not. But the shock at such a moment — when the feelings 
of the audience were under the highest excitement, and 
borne away by the most powerful sympathies for the dying 
and the dead, and forced to think of future and eternal scenes 
— was absolutely appalling. 

Occasionally in the progress of the sermon the doctor was 
exceedingly powerful — his thoughts and manner, and the 
tones of his voice, all befitting each other. The interest of 
the occasion was itself intense ; and when the Amen was 
pronounced, that perfect stillness which had reigned for the 
hour, excepting only the speaker's voice, was succeeded by 
that singular bustle, which an instantaneous change of posi- 
tion in every individual of a great congregation, after having 
been long chained by eloquence in fixed and motionless at- 
titudes, produces. 

" Did you ever hear Dr. Raffles before ?" said the young 
man on my right, as we rose to leave the chapel. " I am 
only this day in England, sir," said I : " I passed this morn- 
ing the scene of the wreck of the Rothsay Castle." — " Is it 
possible !" he replied. " I think, then, this discourse and 
the occasion must have been especially interesting to you." 
— " Deeply, intensely so. And is Dr. Raffles ordinarily as 
interesting as this evening, may I ask ?" — " He is very apt to 
be interesting ; indeed, he is always so. But the occasion, 
as you perceive, was special this evening, and his feelings 
Avere uncommonly excited." The acquaintance I seemed to 
have formed with this young man, by his polite attentions 
while I sat by his side, and by this little dialogue which oc- 
curred on leaving the chapel, imboldened me to ask of him 
the favour of directing me to the " Talbot Inn," as it was 
now night, and I had made a crooked course in finding the 
place. He offered and insisted on accompanying me. Find- 
ing, however, that his lodgings were in an opposite direc- 
tion, I could not consent. He then conducted me to the 



EXTERNAL OF ENGLISH TOWNS. 37 

head of a principal street, and having put me in my way, 
took my hand, and bid me an affectionate good-night — as 
much so as if we had been friends for years. 

The first appearance of Liverpool, as a town, in its exter- 
nal features, was not agreeable to me. Its general aspects, 
as I passed along the streets, were sombre, even dismal. 
Such is very generally the character of English towns ; such 
throughout is the character of London, compared with New- 
York and other American cities. There are two principal 
causes which make this difference : — the absence of paint, 
and the settling of soot, dust, and smoke on the exter- 
nal surface of the houses. Oils and paints are too expen- 
sive in Great Britain to be applied profusely on brick walls. 
They are rarely painted. Besides, the mortar with which 
the bricks are cemented is charged in the mixture with cer- 
tain ingredients, which destroy the natural colour of unal- 
loyed clay as it is turned out of the kiln, and leave a dead 
surface, like that of clay unburnt. I suppose, though I never 
asked, that this composition, as it ill answers the purpose 
of beauty, is designed to supply the office of paint in closing 
the pores, and excluding dampness from the walls. When 
time has covered these dead and cheerless walls with that 
sooty vestment which the burning of coal deposites every- 
where, the external features of a large town in England 
present a dismal contrast to the rich furniture and comfort 
that abound within. A man naturally, or accidentally, dis- 
posed, might die of ennui, or be provoked to go and hang 
himself, by the mere effect of this exhibition, if he were 
doomed to encounter it habitually, without hope of that re- 
lief which the internal comforts of English houses afford. 
The princely mansions of the great and the palace of the 
king are alike in this particular with the ordinary habitations 
of the humble. Even St. Paul's in London, originally pure 
and white when it came from the hand of Christopher 
Wren, is wrapped in a drapery of blackness, as if the night 
and smoke of Erebus had enveloped it for centuries. But a 
Londoner does not see it — does not know it. Indeed, in his 
eyes, this dismal feature, as I suppose, constitutes one of the 
beauties of architecture ; especially as it indicates antiquity. 
If St. Paul's could be Avashed, or its original light colour in 
any way restored — if the dark side of those columns could 
be made as white as the other, and the black drapery with- 
drawn from the walls — that magnificent edifice, the pride of 
London, would be spoiled. Time and custom make us con- 
tent with all things that are not positively vicious and a 
torment. I had almost forgotten this accident myself, till 
the writing of these pages has recalled it. 

An American town is light and airy compared with the 
feature of which I have been speaking. Every brick house 

4 



38 APPEARANCE OF BRITISH SHIPPING. 

is painted and pointed, till the surface is polished and gla- 
zed with oil. It is first a matter of economy; and the 
second consideration is to execute it in good taste, accord- 
ing to the standard of the country. An Englishman says, 
it is fine ; and there is, perhaps, some reason for it. It is, 
however, a matter of choice ; whereas the sooty com- 
plexion of an English town is a thing which cannot be 
helped, and it argues at leztst the virtue of resignation to be 
content with it. 

As an American is struck with the first appearance of an 
English town for the reasons above specified, so is he also 
with the first sight of English shipping. When he arrives 
in the British seas, he observes in all the various craft 
afloat a hulk disproportionate to the rigging, as would 
seem to him. The Americans raise one fourth or one 
third more canvass over the same amount of tonnage, for 
the reason, perhaps, that they are less prudent, and have 
less fear of going to the bottom. They like high-pressure 
engines, and blow up every now and then ; but it is seldom 
we hear of an English steamer bursting her boiler. The 
build (if it be lawful to use such a term) of an English 
vessel is ordinarily shaped for burden rather than fast sail- 
ing. Her head rises from the water like the circle of a 
pumpkin. Whether this difference of construction be the 
reason, or whether the fact asserted be true, I cannot aver ; 
but I have heard it said, since I have been in England, that 
an American ship will ride safe at anchor through a gale in 
the same roadstead where an English vessel will be driven 
ashore or to sea. The former mounts the sea as it ap- 
proaches, while the latter ships it over her bows. I am 
constrained, however, in justice to say, that the English 
yachts, on which the greatest skill and pains of building 
and rigging have been bestowed, for the purpose of fast 
sailing, are the prettiest things I have ever seen afloat ; 
and I question whether any thing of the kind in the world 
has ever equalled in lightness and swiftness the little row- 
boats of the Thames. The Indian bark canoe of North 
America may be lighter, but the rapidity of its flight, under 
the application of an equal force, bears no comparison. 

Another point of difference is the snow-white canvass on 
the American waters — to an American a grateful sight, and 
naturally agreeable to anybody. He who has been used to 
the sight of the steamers connected with New- York, and 
who has observed their beauty and majesty, as they dash 
away on the bosom of the Hudson for Albany, or on the 
East River for Providence, and other places, will be sadly 
disappointed when he comes to observe the low, sable, 
plodding things in the British seas, called by the same 
name, and affecting to advance by the power of steam. 
When, however, he comes to be more acquainted, he will 



IMPORTANCE OF LIVERPOOL. 39 

be reconciled to them, as he will find them adapted to the 
voyages they have to make ; in all respects comfortable 
and well provided, if of the best class ; and accomplishing 
their trips with great certainty and security. To object to 
their blackness would be puerile. Every thing in British 
ports must be black, or become so, as every port has more 
or less to do with Newcastle. Some of the best steamers 
between London and Scotland are probably not surpassed, 
nor equalled, by any in the world, for all those things most 
desirable in vessels of this kind, and in the same service. 
They are large ; they are magnificent ; they are commo- 
dious ; they are well provided ; and they are safe. Eng- 
lish steamers, and other vessels generally, have a better 
inside than outside, like English houses. That things with 
which we have to do, and which we may have occasion to 
use, should be better than their looks promise, is by no 
means an endictable fault, — it is not a cheat. 

Liverpool is remarkable principally for its commercial 
importance. In this particular it is second only to London, 
compared with other towns of the British empire, and it is 
fast gaining even upon the metropolis. Whether its pros- 
perity, which is now so steadily advancing, will one day 
blight the commerce even of London, and compel the latter 
to be content as the seat of the court, the leader of fash- 
ions, and the great centre of political influence, is less proble- 
matical, perhaps, than superficial observers are wont to 
imagine. London, from causes which can never be con- 
trolled, is exceedingly and vexatiousiy difficult of access to 
its commercial connexions. First, there is the wide and 
not very comfortable mouth of the English Channel, stretch- 
ing on the one side from Dover to Land's End, and on the 
other from Boulogne to Brest, always dreaded by the mari- 
ner, whether going out or coming in. The wind which 
has brought him to the Downs may keep him there for 
many days before he can double the Foreland and enter 
the Thames ; and then he has eighty miles of a crooked 
and difficult channel between him and the docks of London. 
The same difficulties present themselves from London to 
the Atlantic. I have received letters at London by a New- 
York and London packet, mailed at Portsmouth, where the 
vessel touched, advising me of some little interest I had in 
the arrival of the ship, and have waited three weeks before 
she was laid in the dock. Early in the winter of 1834-35, 
the Samuel Robertson, a New- York packet, put into Ply- 
mouth in distress, eight weeks after she had left London, 
without ever having got far out of the Channel, if she had 
even fairly left it. She was also at Portsmouth five weeks 
after leaving London. 

Liverpool is almost immediately open to the Atlantic, 
affording a very sure ingress and egress without delay. All 



40 A PARADOX IN ENGLISH CHARACTER. 

men of business in London find that their correspondence 
with foreign parts, which must go upon the Atlantic seas, 
especially their business with America, can be accomplished 
most expeditiously by way of Liverpool. All government 
despatches between the court of St. James and Washington 
city go and come invariably by that channel. Even now 
the connexion by post between London and Liverpool, two 
hundred and six miles, is only about twenty hours; and 
when a railway shall have been opened between them, 
which is now in rapid progress, the distance will be reduced 
to some ten or twelve hours. It is very certain that the 
foreign commercial connexions with nearly all parts of the 
British empire, even for the transportation of goods and 
heavy articles of merchandise, by the growing facilities of 
internal communication, will ultimately be, and that at no 
distant period, several days earlier by the way of Liverpool 
than of London ; a state of things which must inevitably 
give an advantage to the former, with which no power but 
that of a despot could compete. A free trade with India is 
already opened, which has even now given a fresh and 
vigorous impulse to the ever-wakeful spirit and elastic 
power of this commercial rival of London. 

The human mind is intent on looking out for the shortest 
way ; and in no country more so than in Great Britain — the 
drudgery of her agricultural operations, and the ordinary 
employments of her peasantry only excepted, in which 
occupations all things go on, from generation to generation, 
in the same old way. There is this strange anomaly in the 
English character — that every thing connected with com- 
merce, manufactures, and politics, develops the greatest 
activity and invention of mind ; while the husbandry of the 
earth, and all the domestic occupations of " the lower or- 
ders,"* look as if the spirit that presides over them, if spirit 
it be, were irrecoverably stultified. The difference between 
America and Great Britain in these particulars is precisely 
that which a traveller on the Continent and in Great Britain 
must have observed between an English stagecoach and a 
French or Dutch diligence : the former lacks nothing which 
human invention and skill could supply for convenience and 
despatch ; while every appearance and symptom of the lat- 
ter makes one vexed at the dulness and stupidity of his race. 
A furrow which in America would be turned up with the 
greatest ease by two horses, and the service of one man 
with a light plough — which he who follows can throw about 
with one hand, while he guides his quick-stepping cattle 
with the other — employs in England from four to six lazy 
horses, and two to three men, dragging a machine so great 

* A phrase peculiar to the English ; at least not so often heard in our 
land of republican equality. 



LIVERPOOL SLAVE-TRADE. 41 

and heavy, with tackle so abundant and complicated, as to 
remind one not accustomed to such a needless expenditure 
of a man-of-war with its various furniture. All the peas- 
antry of England unconnected with the circle of manufac- 
turing and commercial interests, one would imagine, are at 
work with the same instruments, and after the same modes, 
which were employed by their Saxon ancestors ; and how 
much older they are even than that, it may be difficult to 
say. Strange that there is no more sympathy between the 
mind that drives the plough, shears the grass, dresses the 
hedge, and manages a donkey, and that spirit which has 
raised manufactures to the highest perfection that the world 
can boast of, and economized manual labour almost to a 
miracle ; which spreads the wings of its commerce over all 
seas, and protects its trade by the sleeping thunders of its 
navy. It would not be true to deny, that agriculture is car- 
ried to the highest perfection in England. I only mean to 
speak of the great disadvantage and waste in the application 
of labour. 

The population of Liverpool in 1831 was 165,175 ; that of 
New-York, at the present moment, is 265,000. These two 
great commercial cities are therefore nearly equal in this par- 
ticular ; and they are not very far from being equal in their 
commercial connexions and transactions. They are also 
nearly equal in the dates of their comparative importance. 
In 1669, Liverpool was separated from Walton, a village three 
miles distant, and erected into a parish. In 1700 its popu- 
lation was 5000 ; in 1720, a little more than 10,000 ; in 1740, 
it was 18,000; in 1770, about 30,000; in 1790, it is stated at 
56,000 ; in 1812, it was 94,376 ; and in 1820, it reckoned only 
1 10,000. Since the last-mentioned date its increase has been 
almost unexampled, and its population is now probably 
about 200,000. 

It is melancholy to be obliged to remember, that the Afri- 
can slave-trade has been one of the principal means of the 
growth, and one of the great sources of the wealth, of 
Liverpool. During the ten years from 1783 to 1793, it 
employed in that trade, in all, 878 ships ; imported to the 
West Indies 303,737 slaves, the price of whom averaged 
£50 each; making £15,186,850, or $62,796,880.* Deduct- 
ing allowance to factors, &c, the actual revenue to the 
town was £12,294,116, or $59,011,756. An abatement 
should be made from the number of ships as stated here, 
the sum being made by adding those registered in each 
successive year; as the same ship, in some cases, might 

* In reducing sterling money to Federal money throughout this work, 
I allow $4 80 to the pound ; which is about the medium commercial value 
in the rate of exchange. 

4* 



42 LIVERPOOL DOCKS. 

have been employed for half the period, more or less. Say 
300 ships. , As this estimate comprehends only a minor 
fraction of the period during which this traffic was tolerated 
by Great Britain, it may, perhaps, fairly be supposed, that 
the number of slaves actually made by the Liverpool trade 
alone was considerably more than double this number, and 
the additional income to the town, from that source, propor- 
tionate. The history of Liverpool, published in 1795, from 
which this statement is abridged, has given the items with 
great particularity, apparently as if it were a part of the 
honest and lawful trade of the town — no more discreditable 
or improper than trade in logwood and ivory ! How great 
and interesting the change in public feeling in forty years ! 
Great Britain has been shocked at her own deeds, and 
atoned her fault before heaven and the world. It was well 
said by an American gentleman, who, while in England, 
was publicly taunted for American slavery — " It was the 
sin of our common parent that introduced it among us. If 
you will enact the part of Japheth, I will fill the place of 
Shem. Take you one corner of the garment, and I will 
take the other, and we will both walk backwards, and cover 
the shame of our parent's nakedness." 

One of the most remarkable things attracting the attention 
of an American, as he steps ashore on his arrival at Liver- 
pool, are its magnificent docks and basins, which occupy 
about 111 acres. They are stupendous works of solid ma- 
sonry, laid apparently as firm as the natural rocky base of 
the hills. At low water, the walls constituting the quays are 
sublime objects of artificial structure. The tide in the Mer- 
sey ebbs and flows twenty-five feet, more or less, making a 
great difference in the appearance of the river between low 
and high water. Whether the want of bridges over the 
Mersey at Liverpool is owing to the rapidity and height of 
the tides, and an exposure to a swell from the estuary, or to 
the necessity of keeping the river open to navigation, I am 
unable to say. The ferrying, which is immense, is for the 
most part performed by small steamers, which are difficult 
of access at low water. The quays afford pleasant prome- 
nades, and are often thronged by multitudes of well-dressed 
people, especially when anything a little extraordinary is to 
be seen on the river. The shipping doing business with the 
town, as it comes and goes, passes through the locks at high 
water to and from the basins, which maintain a permanent 
level, and where, at low tide, the forest of masts, locking 
their yard-arms, appears high above the craft that floats in 
the river below. 

The perfection, the beauty, and, I may add, the magnifi- 
cence of the masonry constituting the quays, docks, and ba- 
sins of Liverpool, present a striking contrast to the wooden, 



LIVERPOOL AND MANCHESTER RAILROAD. 43 

feeble, and perishable docks and wharves of our American 
ports. I have never yet seen any of these structures laid 
with stone in the United States ; but this material will doubt- 
less begin to be used for that purpose as the country grows 
older. In the ports of Europe it is generally a matter of 
economy ; and as economy is in fact the governing considera- 
tion that controls all expenditures on public conveniences for 
business, whenever this principle shall demand it, this mode 
of building docks among ourselves will prevail. At present 
we have plenty of wood ; and when that shall grow scarce, 
we shall still have plenty of stone. 

Liverpool is estimated to engross a fourth part of the for- 
eign trade of Britain, a sixth of its general trade, and to fur- 
nish one twelfth of the shipping. Its customs amount to 
about .£4,000,000 annually, and its exports exceed those of 
London. The exact gross customs of Liverpool in 1832 
were £3,925,062. The gross customs of London in 1832 
were £9,434,854. The gross customs of the United King- 
dom for the year ending March 25, 1833, were £19,684,654. 
Net produce of the same was £18,467,881, or $88,645,828. 
The registered shipping for the port of London in 1832, be- 
sides boats and other craft not registered, was 2,669 vessels, 
of 565,174 tons burden, manned by 32,786 men and boys. 
The registered vessels of Liverpool for the same year were 
853 ; burden, 166,028 tons ; employing 9,329 men and boys. 



LIVERPOOL AND MANCHESTER RAILROAD. 

The Trains — A Disaster — An Incident. 

On the 1st of September I took my place, at 10 o'clock 
A. M., in one of the cars of the first class of the railway 
trains for Manchester. This is a fine sight to stand and look 
at when under its greatest speed. It is sublime ; it is gid- 
dy ; it creates anxiety when one estimates the momentum, 
and thinks of the possible results of an accident — such, for 
example, as coming unexpectedly in contact with another 
train from an opposite direction, in a fog, or in the darkness 
of night, when both are on the same line of rails. The con- 
cussion would be tremendous, and the disaster frightful ! 
One would not covet to be a tenant either of one or the 
other of such conflicting powers. Or, suppose a train, go- 
ing at the rate of thirty miles an hour, should meet with 
some little obstacle negligently left on the rails, be thrown 
off, and precipitated down some one of the stupendous ele- 
vations, which are not unfrequently created in building these 
structures across deep ravines — it would plunge like an ar- 
row shot from a bowstring — and what would become of the 
passengers ! Or, suppose the checking-lever should become 



44 RAILWAY DISASTER. 

deranged, and refuse to obey the power applied to it, just as 
the train is flying to its goal, and is already within a few 
rods of it, at the greatest speed, joyously sporting, as if un- 
der the usual command, and hundreds of spectators are 
waiting its arrival — when, lo ! instead of that gradual de- 
crease of its velocity which is customarily witnessed at the 
end of the race, it dashes wildly and furiously onward, and 
rushes with destruction on all opposing obstacles, in a single 
moment creating a frightful heap of ruins, and scattering 
death among those who waited its approach, as well as 
among those whom it has brought along with itself to such 
a catastrophe ! That these suppositions are not without 
reason, but suggested by fact, let the following story demon- 
strate : — 

The time allotted for the first class to go through, the dis- 
tance being thirty-two miles, was one hour and thirty min- 
utes, a small fraction more than twenty miles an hour — fare 
five shillings. The second class of open cars seems for 
some reason to be less active, and is allowed two hours — 
fare three shillings and sixpence. I advise all to go in it, 
for more reasons than one. Whether our engineer had dif- 
ficulty in the outset I know not ; but for the first half way 
there was great irregularity in the degree of speed — some- 
times slow as a horse would walk ; then nearly at rest ; then 
dashing on at a velocity to make one giddy. As the time 
was limited, the slow movements were of necessity to be 
made up by a proportionate increase of speed at other times. 
It seemed like a frolic : now slow ; now upon a gallop ; now 
racing — yea, even flying. I say with propriety — upon a gal- 
lop ; and, I may add, a racing gallop ; for such is the seem- 
ing of the rapid motion of a railway train, while one is shut 
up in the car. There is a regular mechanical jerk, not unlike 
that felt in a two-wheel cart, drawn by a horse with loose 
rein at full speed. It is difficult not to imagine that one is 
being run away with. At the greatest speed of the train 
one cannot look at near objects without becoming instantly 
dizzy. The head whirls like a top ; but to turn the eye at 
the distance of a mile or two, it is very pleasant to observe 
the rapidly-changing relative position of trees, houses, and 
other objects : all seem to be in a race, going one way or 
the other, according as they are nearer or more remote. 
Sometimes a train of cars coming from the opposite direc- 
tion on the other line of rails might be seen ahead ; and the 
next moment it would brush by us at the distance of a yard 
with such velocity that, pent up as we were, we could no 
more count the number of cars than the spokes of a wom- 
an's spinning-wheel when buzzing at its swiftest whirl. The 
rear of the train seemed to present itself almost at the same 
instant with the front. All we - could perceive was— jt is here 
-Ht is gone ! 



RAILWAY DISASTER. 45 

I had frequently put my head out at the window to look 
backward, and forward, and abroad — to make such observa- 
tions as curiosity and the novel interest of the scene invited ; 
for it was the first time I had ever tried that method of con- 
veyance. I should judge we were running at the rate of 
thirty miles an hour, some few minutes after we had left the 
Half-way House, or place of stopping, when I looked out at 
the window, casting my eye forward, and, to my utter horror, 
I saw the engine off the rails, staggering, pitching, and plun- 
ging down the bank ! — reluctantly, indeed, as if conscious 
of its charge and responsibility. I drew in my head, and, 
as my friend who sat opposite to me afterward said, though 
I had no recollection of it, exclaimed three times, "We are 
gone ! we are gone ! we are gone !" And surely I had good 
reason to make the inference ; for what could the train of 
six or eight cars, and a hundred of souls or more in them, 
do but follow ? I had no sooner uttered these exclamations, 
to the great affright of my fellow-passengers, than crash ! 
crash ! crash ! went the whole concern — one car against the 
other — with tremendous violence, and we were all at rest 
in a heap !. The force of the concussion may in part be im- 
agined, as it could be estimated by the track of the engine 
after it was thrown from the rails, and its position in the 
heap of ruin : that, notwithstanding we were proceeding at 
so great a velocity when the accident occurred, we were all 
brought up in the distance of three or four rods after the 
engine had plunged from the rails. Nor was the connexion 
of the train broken. The engine, as it descended the bank 
— which, most fortunately, was not more than six feet high, 
and gently inclined — ploughed and pitched as the momentum 
from behind urged it on ; and by the time all was at rest — 
and time scarcely could it be called, the arrest was so sud- 
den — the entire train lay in a circle, the engine bottom up- 
wards, half way down the bank, the luggage-car upset, the 
first car containing passengers also upset, the second nearly 
over, the third and fourth manifesting the same disposition, 
and each having plunged with all the force of its headway 
into the back of its predecessor. The relative position of 
the parts may be nearly conceived from the fact, that the 
engine lay directly at our door, car No. 5 from the first, 
pouring in upon us all the steam that could escape from the 
safety-valve, which by the shock had been opened, favour- 
ing us gratuitously with all the benefit of a bath most un- 
comfortably hot. My impression at the moment was, from 
the quantity of steam pouring out, that the boiler had col- 
lapsed in the concussion, and let out all its contents. It was 
far from being inviting to escape by the door that looked that 
way ; it was more like plunging into the jaws of death. 
The opposite door was so wrenched that we could not open 
it ; besides that, the car was partly upset, rendering it next 



46 RAILWAY DISASTER. 

to impossible; and, withal, our heads enveloped in such ai 
cloud of steam that we could not see. My friend led the! 
way by jumping through the window. There were two la- 1 
dies, a gentleman, and a boy still remaining with me in the I 
same apartment ; and how we all got out I could not after- 
ward recollect, such was the confusion and affright of the | 
moment. Each and all, impelled by the instinct of self- 
preservation, vacated their undesirable places within the cars i 
the best way they could, and began to show their heads i 
without. Those who found themselves alive began next to 
look after the dead and wounded. Having seen my own ! 
apartment cleared of its tenants, which was more than all 
exposed to the steam, I reconnoitred the circle, and the first 
object of distress that attracted my attention was the engi- 
neer, being dragged out by several hands from underneath 
the engine, where he was found completely buried and en- 
tangled in its fragments. He rose, covered with blood and 
dust. Some one took him by the hand, and congratulated 
him for the preservation of his life. He smiled with an ex- 
pression of wildness, then fainted, and was carried away. 
How the engine should have turned bottom upwards, and 
himself caught underneath it, without instant death, was in- 
deed marvellous. As it mercifully happened, not another 
individual was seriously injured, though a few carried away 
some slight contusions. I have never heard whether the 
engineer lived or died. He was sadly bruised. Immedi- 
ately the peasantry from the adjoining farms, who saw the 
accident, poured in upon us, and offered their assistance. 
The disabled cars were drawn off; the engine was left in its 
position, a perfect wreck, with its wheels in the air. I ob- 
served that one of its axles was broken, and was told that 
was the occasion of the disaster. That, however, was a 
point by no means obvious, as the violence of its upsetting 
might have broken the axle, as well as many other of its 
parts, that had suffered equally. The shock had thrown the 
whole train into a circle. Not one of the cars retained its 
position on the rails on which we came, the rails themselves 
having been wrenched and in part dislocated from their fast- 
enings ; and a portion of the train was thrown over on the 
rails of the other line, and completely obstructed the entire 
road, so that other trains which came up in the meantime 
were obliged to wait till the way could be cleared for them 
to pass. Three of our cars, viz., those in the rear, were 
found, upon examination, comparatively uninjured. They 
were replaced on the way, ourselves and luggage stowed in 
heaps on board of them, and by the aid of an engine which 
happened along without a train, we arrived at Manchester 
about two hours after the regular time. 

To us, who were passengers, this accident was not a very 
trivial matter ; and we might naturally expect that it would 



RAILWAY DISASTER. 47 

make quite a report — that it would at least be a topic of 
conversation at Manchester and Liverpool for the remain- 
der of the day, and that somewhat of the particulars of the 
disaster would be detailed in the Liverpool and Manchester 
journals. 

"Well," said I to a fellow-passenger from New- York, 
who came on the railway to Manchester on the evening of 
the same day, and who, I thought, was a little wanting in 
sympathy, that he did not congratulate us for our merciful 
preservation, on the first salutation as we met at the Star 
Inn— "what do they say at Liverpool?" — "Nothing new, 
sir." A little vexed at his apparent insensibility, I said, " I 
do not ask for the news ; but what do they say of our upset 
this morning '?" — " What upset ?" 

He had spent the day at Liverpool, in the busy world, had 
come to Manchester by the same conveyance, but had not 
heard a syllable of our disaster. I asked if he did not see 
the wreck. " No." That, however, might easily have been 
overlooked, when one was not expecting it, and coming on 
at such an amazing rate, shut up in a close carriage. In- 
deed, it could not be expected that he would see it, except 
by mere accident. I had supposed, however, as the rails at 
the point of our arrest appeared to be wrenched, and in one 
or two places nearly or quite torn up, that there would have 
been an interruption of the passing for repairs. But as 
there are two ways all through, and crossing-places from 
Diie to the other at short intervals, that section, with due 
notice to the engineers, might easily be avoided till the 
necessary repairs could be effected. 

That the Manchester and Liverpool journals are not dis- 
posed to give any unnecessary alarm to the public by a de- 
tailed recital of such accidents, the very slight notice of our 
misfortune, which appeared in them the next day, was suf- 
ficient proof. The world would scarcely know that it was 
any thing worthy of record. There seems to be a sym- 
pathy between all adjunct interests, which happen to be in 
some degree mutually dependant. Liverpool and Manches- 
ter are justly proud of this stupendous work of art, and this 
amazing facility of intercourse, and transportation of their 
wares and merchandise. They are deeply interested in 
maintaining its good reputation as a safe conveyance for 
passengers; and notwithstanding there have been some 
frightful and destructive disasters now and then, on railways 
and in steam conveyances by water, it is yet gravely main- 
tained that the invention is a great saving of life and prop- 
erty foi my given amount of business and travelling; and 
I am inclined to the belief that such is the fact. On this 
assumption, any unnecessary alarm is rather an evil than a 
benefit to the public. Still, I suppose a traveller, who has 



48 A FLIGHT FOR SAFETY. 

met with an accident of this kind, has a right to tell his 
story without being liable to the charge of malevolence. 

All the passengers by that train were not a little discom- 
posed for the time, as may be imagined. Their senses were 
half driven out of them by the shock; particularly was it 
so with the females. The remainder of the distance, about 
twelve miles, was passed in a very nervous state of feeling, 
every one seeming to anticipate the renewal of a like scene ; 
and, to tell truth, the best judgment and the strongest 
minds could not very well approve such overburdening of 
the three less injured cars, into which we were crowded ; 
constantly suffering the apprehension that they might fall 
down under us, from the failure of parts that must have 
been weakened by the shock and wrenching they had suf- 
fered. Some of the most timid could hardly persuade 
themselves that they had escaped alive ; and continued pale 
and trembling till we got through — the ladies clinging to 
their friends, and imploring protection. 

My friend, who had been a fellow-passenger in the ship, 
and who had darted out at the window of the car to escape 
from the steam, had plunged down the opposite bank, leaped 
a fence, and run for his life at right angles with the railroad, 
through a low and wet morass, I know not how far, till he 
thought himself safe. I looked for him in vain, till some 
ten or fifteen minutes he returned, puffing and out of breath, 
and made report of the travels he had accomplished in the 
meantime. It was not till he became more composed that 
he discovered he had received a severe contusion in one of 
his legs ; nor could he divine how it happened, but rather 
conjectured that it was by jumping out of the window, or 
perhaps by leaping the fence when he ran down into the 
morass. It was the steam that frightened him and sent 
him out in that direction. Being an American, and having 
heard much of the sad effects of steam let loose in our 
country, he was resolved to make sure and get out of the 
way of it. And, indeed, any one would allow there was 
some apology, if he could conceive how it blew away at us, 
directly into our apartment of the car, when first we came 
into a heap. 

I had several times gone out at Liverpool to see the rail- 
way trains come in and go out, and had enjoyed it much. 
I had even walked out some two or three miles, and taken 
my station upon a bridge, to espy their first appearance at a 
distance, in coming from Manchester, to observe their rapid 
approach, led on by the little, quick, and spiteful engine, 
spitting a volume of steam at every breath, as if vexed 
and goaded by its task; or rather snorting like a high- 
mettled steed, that takes the bit in his teeth, dashing 
forward in spite of his rider, and running- away with him. 
Now it is in sight — now it is here — and now away it hies to 



NEW CUSTOMS. 49 

the goal ; and all as soon as one can write— almost as soon 
as one can speak it. I have stood upon a bridge twenty 
feet across, as a long train came up at full speed, on the 
side of its approach, and gazed at it till the engine came 
directly under my feet, all braced for a spring to the other 
side, and before I could reach it, with my utmost agility, the 
whole train, twelve or fifteen rods long, would be gone from 
under me, and flying away like a bird on the wing ! All this 
was very amusing and delightful, as well as astonishing, 
before the accident. It impresses one with some sense of 
the grandeur of the possible achievements of human art, 
and with awe in the contemplation of the yet unascertained 
powers of the human mind. 

But after our disaster, on the same day, I went out from 
Manchester and perched myself on a bridge, to witness 
these movements again. But how different my thoughts 
and emotions ! The opportunities of observation there are 
better than at the end towards Liverpool, as the trains can 
be seen approaching at the distance of two or three miles, 
perhaps more. But instead of pleasure, it was all anxiety. 
My mind was occupied solely in calculating the chances of 
an accident, and the consequences that might result. I 
could imagine scores and hundreds of possible and not very 
improbable things, that might occasion a disaster. Instead 
of welcoming the approach of this shooting train, I trem- 
bled ; the nearer it came, the more uneasy I felt ; I pitied 
those on board of it ; I blamed the presumption of the en- 
gineer for flying at such a rate, when so near the end of his 
race ; and imagined it possible that he would not be able to 
stop it in season to save them from rushing headlong into 
the town and streets of Manchester. But still no accident 
occurred, except in my creative imagination, where, indeed, 
and in spite of all my sounder logic, they rushed in throngs 
upon each other's heels. 

A foreigner in a strange land will naturally and very pru- 
dently endeavour to acquaint himself with such manners 
and customs as he may have been unaccustomed to ; so far 
at least as may be convenient to himself, or necessary to 
save him from being troublesome or unacceptable to others. 
All travellers will probably agree, that a first breaking-in of 
this kind, in passing from one country to another, is more or 
less embarrassing. Do the best any one can — be he ever so 
conscientious in his efforts to conform to innocent customs 
— he will notwithstanding be doomed to mistakes, annoy- 
ing to himself or to others, and sometimes ludicrous. From 
Liverpool I began to travel in England, and to acquire by 
experience what I had failed to learn from other sources, 
of that knowledge which is essential to a traveller's com- 
fort. In all countries one has need to be vigilant against 
C 5 



50 AN IMPOSITION. 

the tricks and impositions of the agents and contractors of 
public conveyances; and in England an American has to 
learn how to satisfy the servants of inns and hotels, the 
coachman and guard, and such other subsidiaries to his 
comfort (or, as it often happens, subsidiaries to his annoy- 
ance) as may happen to fall in his way. In America, 
servants of all public conveyances and houses of entertain- 
ment are paid by their employers ; and no traveller, or 
guest, is ever obliged to put his hand in his pocket for any 
thing but a single and general bill, wherever he is indebted 
for conveyance, or lodgings, or other services — excepting 
only for the porter, who is always his own man, and the 
shoeblack, or, as in England they call him, the boots. This 
is generally true in the Northern States, except in some of 
the largest establishments in the principal cities ; and in 
some places of public resort, gratuities, in latter years, are 
in vogue. This is an unworthy aping of European custom. 
In the Southern States, from the similarity of the relation 
between the master and slave to that between the old Euro- 
pean lord and serf— where the custom doubtless originated 
to secure the affection and purchase the fidelity of the ser- 
vant — gratuities to slaves and coloured servants are also 
expected. In England there is more or less of the ancient 
servility and debasing obsequiousness in the character of 
servants, which makes them willing to depend on the law 
of " what you please, sir ;" but it is notwithstanding a rec- 
ognised law of society, and stands up in the shape of a 
legalized and just demand. For the most part, I believe, 
servants of all public conveyances and houses depend on 
their gratuities for their wages in whole or in part; and 
where travelling is great, and guests are constantly chan- 
ging, the proprietors and masters of these establishments 
sell the places of their servants to those who fill them, 
according to their value. 

To the article of imposition: — What traveller has not a 
full budget of this kind? The first step I made out of 
Liverpool and in England, I was doomed to suffer vex- 
atiously in this particular; which, in justice, I must put 
down to the credit of Brotherton's coach-office, where they 
were guilty, first, of the impropriety of taking my fare to 
Birmingham by the railway ; and next, of the shameful in- 
justice of signifying to me, when I arrived at Manchester 
too late for the coach of that day on account of the accident, 
that they had no interest or responsibility in the railway ; 
that they were glad the accident had happened ; that I had 
forfeited my passage to Birmingham by not being at Man- 
chester in proper time, the coach having been gone two 
hours ; that it was good enough for me for having patroni- 
sed the railway ; and they refused to enter my name for the 
next day, without payment in full from Manchester to Bir- 






AN INCIDENT. 51 

mingham, which they had received once that morning at 
Liverpool ! For the railway they had purchased and given 
me a ticket, which I afterward discovered was their prac- 
tice, for the sake of securing passengers by their own 
coach. 

But to the more amusing part of servants, porters, &c. — 
Having made diligent inquiry at Liverpool what class of 
servants were to be " remembered," and by what consider- 
ation, I believe I succeeded tolerably well in rendering 
satisfaction, as I left my lodgings at the Talbot Inn. A 
little extraordinary in England, the servants and porters 
connected with the Manchester railway, who help us on 
and off at the extremities, are not permitted, as was under- 
stood, to accept of gratuities. The getting on, therefore, 
as we passed from the omnibus to the railway cars, was 
easily and pleasantly accomplished. But as we did not get 
through in the ordinary way, it was natural enough, per- 
haps, that the getting off should also be signalized by some 
out-of-the-way incidents. We came to the Manchester 
extremity of the railway out of time and out of order : but 
as I had. never been there before, it was not for me to 
know that every thing else in that place was out of order ; 
that our upset and consequent delay had deranged these 
remote affairs, and collected an unusual crowd to see what 
the matter might be. I had understood that we should be 
carried off in the same manner and style as we were 
brought on, by the servants and coaches connected with 
the railway, and dropped in town at a definite place ; in 
short, that the beginning and end of the railway were at 
the offices in Liverpool and Manchester, and that we had 
nothing to do but to remain passive, till we had used up 
our purchased and assigned privileges. Of course I obey- 
ed instructions, and kept in the passive state ; but being 
out of time, and anxious lest I should lose my seat in the 
coach for Birmingham, I was willing to be carried into 
town by whatever hands should first offer for that service. 
Instantly as we arrived, a mob of porters presented them- 
selves, touching their hats, with — " A coach, sir V — " A 
coach, sir?" — "Yes." — "Any luggage, sir?" — "Yes, here 
it is." Immediately myself and friend, with our several 
articles of luggage, were stowed away in a hackney-coach 
by as many hands as could find a hold at both ends of each 
portmanteau, of the umbrellas, great-coats, travelling-desks, 
&c. ; for, still passive, we gratefully accepted of any and 
all assistance that was offered, imagining that the abun- 
dance of it was kindly owing to the sympathy felt in our 
misfortunes. Well, being in the coach, and having given 
directions where to drive, and not a little impatient even 
for the least unnecessary delay, it seemed to us rather un- 
accountable that all remained at a stand, and this half- 
C2 



52 JUSTICE EXTORTED. 

score of kind hands, who had helped us with our luggage 
off the railway into our then present place, and whom we 
had already thanked, standing without, gazing at us through 
the window, lifting their hands to their heads, bowing, <fcc. 
&c. ! Indeed, these attentions seemed very extraordinary. 
They must be very kind people here, and this is the manner 
of expressing their sympathy, and their congratulations for 
our deliverance. Still I thought we could ill afford the 
time for such ceremonies, and I put my head out of the 
window, and bid the coachman — " Drive on :" I had not 
yet learned to say — "All right !" Still he waited. I then 
bid him authoritatively — " Drive on !" Still we found our- 
selves the subjects of a shower of these kind and congratu- 
latory offices. As the coach drove off, they followed us at 
either side, and seemed unwilling to give us their last bles- 
sing, as long as they could keep pace with us. 

Poor fellows ! I have often wished I could meet with 
them again ; I would certainly render to them double for all 
their kindness ; for it does not take long in England to 
learn what such attentions mean. Indeed, had we not 
been, by a common understanding, under the protection of 
a free passport, we might, perhaps, have discovered it even 
then : but, being strangers in the realm, it was not our 
business to know the nice shades of difference in different 
characters ; or, that a servant of the railroad company 
wore a glazed hat, and a common porter no hat at all — 
that the former was able to have a coat, and that the latter 
wanted a shirt. 

Having presented ourselves at the coach-office, learned 
that we were too late, and received the very civil answer 
of the agent, that we had forfeited our money, &c, as a 
due reward for our bad conduct in patronising the railway, 
we pocketed the insult, and took lodgings at the Star Inn. 
Having thought over this treatment a little, I returned to 
the coach-office, left my name and address, and told the 
clerk I would give him two hours to reconsider his de- 
cision ; after which, if I should not hear from him in the 
meantime, he need not be surprised if the business were 
put into other hands for adjustment. In about half an hour 
he sent me word that my name was booked to Birmingham 
for the next day, with a notice of the hour when the coach 
would take me up. 



ENGLISH STAGECOACHES. 53 



TRAVELLING IN ENGLAND. 

English and American Stagecoaches— The high state of English Agri- 
culture and Horticulture — The artificial Beauties of English Land- 
scape — Journey from Manchester to London — Curious Names of Inns 
in England— Warren's Blacking— Profits of Empiricism. 

It must be conceded that there is nothing in the world, 
of the same kind, equal to the English stagecoach system 
— if that may be called system which is the accidental re- 
sult of the enterprise of many thousands of individuals, 
each of whom is opposed to all the rest in the way of com- 
petition. It is impossible to be months and years in Eng- 
land, and have occasion to traverse it frequently and in va- 
rious directions by means of these conveyances, without 
appreciating the perfection of the system, in comparison 
with that of other countries, where the subjects of such 
comparison have fallen within one's observation. In itself 
alone it is admirable. Take London as a centre : count the 
number of offices devoted to this business, the coaches that 
belong to each, and find the sum of all the passengers that 
contribute to their support for a year, a month, or a day ; 
estimate, if it were possible, the gross expense of these 
establishments as an outfit, and the expense of maintaining 
them, and in that way arrive at what must be paid by the 
public to make the business profitable : observe the disci- 
pline under which they are brought ; the precision of their 
time ; the exactitude and celerity of their movements ; the 
certainty of accomplishing their stages as promised ; the 
beauty and speed of the horses, and neatness of their 
harness ; the well-painted and polished vehicle, light in 
itself and commodious in all its parts ; the coachman well 
dressed, well fed, and well satisfied ; — in a word, take the 
system all in all, there is little fault to be found with it — it 
ought to be praised, if it were not above praise — the impo- 
sitions of the agents always excepted. 

An English stagecoach will generally carry sixteen pas- 
sengers — four inside and twelve out ; the fare of the inside 
being perhaps on an average, in excess of the outside, as 
twenty to twelve. In pleasant weather the outside is pref- 
erable ; to a stranger, who wishes to view the country as 
he passes along, it is indispensable ; but in a rain there is 
no protection when the seats are all occupied. The raising 
of umbrellas only turns the streams that flow from them 
into somebody's neck or lap; each one inflicting torrents 
on his neighbour, which are even more comfortable to be 
received in drops, as the clouds dispense them. A complete 
5* 



54 ENGLISH STAGECOACHES. 

panoply of oil, or India-rubber cloth, over head, shoulders, 
and body, is the only competent defence against the acci- 
dents of weather on the top of an English coach. With 
such a provision, a man in health, who travels principally 
by day, may safely go outside, if reasons of seeing the 
country, or of economy, are of sufficient weight. The 
saving made in the difference of fare, even in a few short 
trips, will equip him well for this purpose. The hazards of 
upsetting are at least some little consideration for preferring 
the inside ; and some people, on the calculation of chances, 
think it prudent, and in this view more economical, always 
to engage that place, as it is nearer the ground, and tol- 
erably well protected against a serious injury from a com- 
mon upset. But an English stagecoach cannot go com- 
pletely over, even on a level, without danger of life and limb 
to those on the top; and when crowded with passengers, 
and oppressed with luggage, they are top-heavy, and easily 
overturned. The only warrant against this danger are the 
care and skill of the coachmen and the excellence of the 
roads. In no other country, to my knowledge, are coaches 
of English fashion in general use. They are only safe 
where the roads are so well made and so well kept as in 
Great Britain ; and where coaching is conducted on a sys- 
tem so admirably perfect. It is impossible that roads 
should be better than in England ; and the expense con- 
stantly bestowed on the great thoroughfares, to keep them 
in the best Macadamized condition, is immense. It is all 
defrayed, however, by the toll authorized to be taken at 
the gates. Considering the great and almost incalculable 
amount of coaching done in England, fatal accidents from 
upsetting, or otherwise, are exceedingly rare. The ordi- 
nary rate of travelling in English stagecoaches on the great 
roads, where there is competition, is ten miles an hour, 
including the time occupied in changing horses and taking 
necessary refreshment. This, I believe, is nearly the aver- 
age of the royal mail. Some coaches push their speed to 
twelve miles. 

The driver of an English stagecoach receives the hon- 
ourable appellation of coachman by courtesy, as I suppose, 
and thus ranks with the driver of a gentleman's or noble- 
man's carriage — in the same manner as the heir-apparent 
of a peerage is called a lord. An American in England, 
from force of habit, for a long time calls the coachman — 
driver ; by which he is not only recognised as a Yankee, 
but he will be likely to receive an awry and partly discom- 
posed look from the respectable personage addressed — it is 
possible he will not get an answer. It is remarkable that 
an English coachman is offended to be called a driver, and 
an American driver to be called a coachman. 

I have been through England, Scotland, and Ireland, and 



WASTE OF LABOUR. 55 

travelled in all seasons of the year, but have never yet been 
interrupted, or experienced any inconvenience from the 
badness of the roads. I must also in justice add to this, 
that I have never yet suffered the want of any needful com- 
fort at an inn. It is true, my routes for the most part have 
been on the great thoroughfares of the country. My opin- 
ion is, that in no part of the world are the benefits of civi- 
lization, for facility and comfort in travelling, so apparent 
as in England. As to personal security, one never thinks 
of danger by day or by night, except from a possible acci- 
dent to the coach. 

English coaching, and travelling in Great Britain, appear 
to great advantage, compared with the same things on the 
Continent. A French or Dutch diligence, its horses and 
their tackle, the postillion and his boots, his eternal urging 
of the dull cattle by whip and voice, the long and ponder- 
ous machine, which rumbles reluctantly over the pave- 
ment, groaning beneath its tenants and mountainous pile 
of luggage, at the rate of four and five miles an hour, are 
indeed a striking contrast to that trim and polished vehicle, 
and those swift and fiery steeds, which dash along the 
smooth highways of England, a beauty to look at, skilfully 
guided and hardly kept back to eight, nine, and ten miles 
an hour, full of joyous spirits, which seem well to sympa- 
thize with the apparent hilarity of their flight. 

In an apparatus of this description, so well accoutred, 
on so great a thoroughfare as that between Manchester and 
Birmingham, and from the latter place to London, along the 
whole of which every movement is as active and energetic 
as the business soul of the metropolis and of these two 
great workshops of England can inspire, it were not strange 
that I should find myself rolled onward with great ease and 
satisfaction, even to my heart's content, notwithstanding 
the trifling vexation of a piece of downright villany that 
was attempted upon me by the agents of these otherwise 
very convenient establishments. 

The high cultivation of England is a general feature, 
which strikes the observation of an American as he first 
begins to pass over its surface. The whole country is com- 
paratively a garden. Agriculture and horticulture in Eng- 
land are both done at an amazing waste of manual labour — 
especially the former, for want of ingenuity ; but they are 
well done — they are done to a perfection perhaps unrivalled. 
In gardening it is not so easy to waste labour, as all parts 
of its operations are contracted and minute ; but in farming, 
it is wasted in England on a great scale, both in the use of 
cattle and of the hand of man. The fact is a paradox in the 
general character of the English. Two reasons, at least, 
may be assigned for it : — First, the hands employed at these 



56 ENGLAND A GARDEN. 

tasks, and in the common drudgery of English life, do not 
belong to inventive minds. They never think of doing an 
accustomed task in a new way — never — from generation to 
generation. All things in these departments of English 
labour are one everlasting and uniform round, and the 
minds of the labourers seem as mechanical in their opera- 
tions as the hands employed. Another reason may perhaps 
be found in that vicious and ruinous political economy — at 
least far from thriving in its influence on a community — 
which fails to find employment adequate to the increase of 
population. So long as such a system is in operation, the 
less invention for the saving of labour, the better for the 
poor. Among the labourers themselves there is no motive 
to improvement, but the contrary. The longer they can 
occupy themselves in accomplishing a specific object, by 
so much are the means of subsistence for themselves and 
their class augmented ; and it may be a benevolence in 
their employers to allow it to be so. 

England, notwithstanding, in all those parts of it which 
have been brought under cultivation, is a garden. All 
through the country the estates and farms are divided into 
small, unequal, and multiform patches — parks and pleasure- 
grounds excepted — enclosed with hedges, that peculiar and 
beautiful feature of English landscape scenery, many of 
which exhibit ranges of full-grown trees. It is not so com- 
mon in England as in America for landholders and farmers 
to divide their attention to all the various and appropriate 
productions of the earth ; but one district is more especially 
devoted to grazing, another to corn,* and another to the 
production of hay for large towns, &c. &c. ; particularly is 
it necessary to appropriate considerable districts to the 
growth of hay, to supply the demands of the metropolis ; 
plains, downs, and wolds are left open in some parts of the 
country expressly for sheep-ranges. To be aware of these 
specific appropriations of the soil of England, one must have 
travelled somewhat extensively. To an American eye, 
however, a passage through England in almost any direc- 
tion, for the first time, will leave the impression of a high 
degree of culture. This, indeed, is what he expected ; but 
still the images which story has inscribed upon the brain 
are ordinarily effaced by a vision of the reality. The towns 
and the country of a foreign land, and the minor parts of 
each and all, have a deep interest in them on a first inspec- 
tion. The minutest variations from accustomed features, 
and the nicest shades of difference, because they are differ- 
ent, attract attention, and leave an impress of their hues 
and forms. 

* Corn in England, and very properly, is generic. The synonymous 
term in America is grain— com here being used to designate a species of 
grain, which is never grown in England, viz., Indian com, or maize. 



A STORY. 57 

One thing will be especially evident to a stranger in Eng- 
land ; that the artificial lines and figures of its geographical 
phasis were never projected and described by an engineer; 
and for its greatest beauty, and for the creation of its most 
enchanting scenes, it is well they were not. I never trav- 
elled on a road in England that ran in a straight line for any 
considerable distance ; I have never seen any extended dis- 
trict, the divisions of which might seem to have been gov- 
erned by mathematical rules. All seems the creation of 
hazard ; even the plough, if its furrow corresponds with a 
border-line of the field in which it is drawn, is often forced 
to make a track like that of the serpent ; and so mechani- 
cally bent is the whole public mind of those who till the 
earth, to irregularities of this kind, that the open and undi- 
vided plains and fields, when brought under the culture of the 
plough, are often wantonly made to exhibit this devious tra- 
cery. Well, perhaps, that the landholders are few, as oth- 
erwise they might never be able to determine the bounda- 
ries that lie between them. Certainly they are not often to 
be ascertained by observations of the compass. 

I have a friend in London, in whose company I once vis- 
ited the palace and gardens of Versailles, and who is tempt- 
ed, whenever he can get a new listener in my presence, 
to relate an anecdote apparently at my expense, and not 
very much in compliment to the English, so far as my own 
part in the affair was concerned, in his way of telling the 
story. He says, that while we were going over the English 
g;arden at the Petit Trianon, I expressed the greatest impa- 
tience, and frequently exclaimed, " Come, let us go to the 
Palace. This is nothing but an English garden /" The truth 
was, we did not go to France to see an English garden, al- 
though it is doubtless one of the most beautiful creations of 
the kind in the world ; and although that portion of that lit- 
tle island which lies south of the Tweed be nothing but old 
England, yet there is no other spot on the globe, of equal di- 
mensions, to be compared with its variegated scenery, as 
adorned by the hand of man. As much as English garden- 
ing exceeds that of any other nation in variety — so the gen- 
eral laying out of the country, the sinuous courses of its 
highways, its hedges, its parks and pleasure-grounds, its cul- 
tivated regions and wild wastes, present a scene of beauti- 
ful and enchanting disorder, which, if reduced to straight 
lines and right angles, would be stripped of their principal 
power to charm. 

If this somewhat excursive excursion, from Manchester to 

London, should not altogether satisfy the taste of those who 

look for a straight-forward journal of incidents, after the 

good old way, of recording every thing seen, thought, felt, 

C3 



58 A JOURNAL. 

and done, I would offer the following, not as completely ful- 
filling such a design, but as an abridgment : — 

Left Manchester at 8, or 9, or 10 o'clock — forget which ; 
—an outside — reason, of course, to see the country ; — coach 
full — pleasant day — admirable road — went on smooth, at 
good speed ; — thought these English rather beat the Ameri- 
cans in changing horses ; — came to dinner at fifty or sixty 
miles — made quick business of it — all jumped down, and at 
the second jump were at the table, handling the knife and 
fork in earnest — some with hats on, others off; notwith- 
standing, very civil, each offering to help his neighbour, or 
any one that wanted — all which needed no apology, for, be- 
fore we were half satisfied, we were summoned to leave the 
table, or be left behind. In the course of the day passed 
through the vast estates of the Duke of Sutherland, one of 
the wealthiest noblemen of England ; — was told that one 
might ride thirty miles in one direction, and not go off the 
estate ; — had a full view of the mausoleum, and a peep at 
the house. Soon after we passed the house an asylum for 
the insane opened upon us, between two little and sharp 
hills, a creation so beautiful and enchanting, that one might 
suppose it competent to restore the unfortunates lodged 
there to soundness of mind, or fill them with dreams of being 
in the happiest world. Fountains played fantastically in the 
midst of a scene of verdure and of flowers. Then came up 
a shower ; rained hard — put up umbrellas ; that of one of my 
neighbours turned a stream of water into my neck, and I 
with mine turned a current into his lap ; we moved a little, 
and took it in another place, and then in another, till we all 
thought it more equal to take the shower as the clouds 
dropped it. It was soon over, and the sun shone bright 
again. By-and-by the duke's castle, on a distant eminence 
at the right, came in view — a fine object — the first I ever 
saw : experienced a revival of the romantic sentiments con- 
nected with the history of castles, particularly of Kenil- 
worth. It was a long time in sight, and presented constantly 
varying aspects, as we wheeled round the hill at a distance 
on the plain below. Saw a grand cluster of hills on the 
left, approaching to the character of mountains. Passed 
through Wolverhampton in the twilight of evening, the best 
time possible to behold — as we left the scene behind us, and 
as night came on — those numerous and lofty chimneys, 
spouting smoke and fire, in dense and awful columns, to- 
wards heaven, each like the mouth of an Etna or Vesuvius. 
Arrived at Birmingham, took tea, and went to bed ; had 
first, however, taken care to secure a seat to London the 
next day in another line of coaches, the " Tally-ho !" not 
being inclined to patronise that line, the agents of which had 
first deceived me, and then administered such a civil rebuke 
for patronising the railway. 



A JOURNAL. 59 

Breakfast : no table d'hote — each by himself, and the bill 
according to the number of eatables ordered ; good coffee 
never to be had in England at an inn, or hotel, scarcely any- 
where ; tea bad enough, as served at the inns. A traveller 
in England must resign himself never to have good tea or 
coffee ; of the two, tea is most tolerable. The reasons are, 
first, in the villanies of the trade ; next, so far as coffee is 
concerned, being afraid to use enough of it ; and lastly, the 
want of skill. The bill being settled, the waiter, chamber- 
maid, and boots "remembered" the traveller may be dis- 
missed ; — the porter, of course, to be remembered, according 
to his trouble, it being understood that the minimum price 
for his services, if the coach goes from the door of the trav- 
eller's hotel, is sixpence. There is always, besides, a hanger- 
on at an English coach, the name of whose office I have 
never yet learned, and through whose hands every article 
of luggage must pass ; at least he must contrive to lay his 
hands upon it, in order to assert his claim. If the traveller 
has only an umbrella or a walking-stick, he must let him 
take that, and pass it back again ; or if he has nothing at 
all, not even a great-coat, the claimant will notwithstanding 
appear before him, touching his hat for a threepence, " as 
you please." It is his right, whether he actually performs 
a service or not, being always in attendance for that pur- 
pose. 

At 9 o'clock left Birmingham for London ; — coach more 
than full, crowned high aloft with luggage, a quantity lashed 
behind, and not a little stowed away in a suspension-car un- 
der the coach, and swinging three or four inches above the 
ground — an invention provided for this purpose when re- 
quired, and which, from the smoothness of the road, is never 
in danger of brushing the surface ; attended by a guard with 
a red coat, the king's livery. Anybody may put on the 
king's livery, without being called in question. He may af- 
fect to be king himself. 

The guard of a common coach is so called merely because 
he occupies the same place as the guard of the royal mail. 
He never carries any arms, either by day or night ; there is 
no occasion for it in the present state of England. He is 
simply the servant of the coach, to wait upon passengers, to 
take charge of the luggage, to render every necessary as- 
sistance to the coachman, to be intrusted with errands, &c. 
&c. He is properly the footman of the establishment ; but 
between such places as London and Birmingham it is a la- 
borious and responsible office. He of course goes through, 
— up one day and down the next; and business men at both 
extremities, mid along at different stages of the line, find it 
convenient to intrust him with matters more or less impor- 
tant, besides the little errands which he has committed to 
him from a multitude of hands. He is ordinarily the busiest 



60 A LESSON. 

and most active being imaginable. I have supposed that 
the perquisites of that place, in one of the daily coaches be- 
tween London and Birmingham — reckoning what he gets 
from passengers, and what from the discharge of his various 
trusts — would range from one guinea and a half to two guin- 
eas a day — more likely, I should think, two — or ten dollars. 
A part of this, of course, goes to his master, the proprietor 
of the coach, according as they can agree between them- 
selves. If he wears the king's livery — scarlet — it is not as 
the king's servant, for the king has nothing to do with it, but 
only as a more obvious mark of his place in a crowd, and to 
all those who may wish to have any thing to do with him. 
The coachman, where the business is sufficient to employ a 
guard, is quite the gentleman. It is beneath his dignity to 
put his hand to any thing, except the reins and whip. His 
professional name is — The Whip. 

- The coach competition between London and Birmingham 
is so great, as to occasion the greatest activity and despatch, 
and the horses are ordinarily pushed through, 109 miles, in 
eleven hours — sometimes in ten. The average speed, while 
actually on the road, is about ten miles. 

It was just night coming on as we drove into London. 
The delay at the Peacock, Islington, where coaches on this 
route begin and end the measure of their time— being in no 
hurry before they start from this point, or after they arrive 
at it — made it quite night by the time we plunged into the 
heart of the town. It was at this place where, by the virtue 
of hints, I received some lessons as to the duties of the pas- 
senger who takes a seat on the box with the coachman. 
In the first place, whenever the coachman takes it into his 
head (which is not very unfrequent) that there is not enough 
in his head, and jumps down to get a little more, he passes 
the reins and whip into the hands of the passenger by his 
side, without betraying any symptom that he is to be obliged 
by the service ; and when he resumes his place, he is sup- 
posed to be so absorbed and intent on his task, as to forget 
to acknowledge the favour. The truth is, the box is consid- 
ered a privileged place, and he who presumes to take it 
must also assume the responsibility of doing the duties of 
the coachman when the coachman is not there ; and this 
is not very formidable, as the horses are not only well 
trained, but a man is always ready at every stopping-place 
to stand by their heads. The most difficult part is to take, 
and hold, and deliver the reins and whip in proper style. 
In this business I happened to be uneducated, which did 
not fail to be made manifest to our second coachman 
from Birmingham, before we arrived in London. He him- 
self had quite enough in his head, when he took the reins 
some forty miles back ; or rather, was excused from taking 
charge of them at first, and tumbled on the top of the coach 



A LESSON. 61 

to preside over the doings of his proxy for the time being, 
till he could see well enough to take the place himself. I 
supposed he was a passenger, and was not a little vexed at 
his presuming to meddle so much in giving advice to the 
hands that guided the reins before he took them. The tech- 
nicalities he employed in the course and continuance of his 
lecture were to me perfectly unintelligible ; but it was evi- 
dent he was an adept in the science ; and awake, drunk, or 
asleep, his skill and address in the art, as was afterward 
proved, were consummate. I would give a little to know his 
history. I partly suspected he had once been used to a bet- 
ter condition, but made content to take up with this ; for his 
speech and manners were evidently those of a higher order 
of society. I never should have dreamed of his belonging 
to the establishment, except that, in going to Birmingham 
some nine months afterward, in the same coach, I found my- 
self, on leaving London, on the box by the side of the same 
coachman, attended by the same guard. In the last instance 
he was all that could be wished of any man in that place, 
demonstrating the same superiority of breeding. I should 
not think that such a state of excitement as I first found him 
in was common with him. 

To my no small uneasiness, about twenty miles before we 
arrived in London, he took the reins. He assumed them, 
by authority, because his proxy did not put up the horses to 
his satisfaction; and for some parts of the remaining dis- 
tance we came in a genuine railroad style, and I was not a 
little apprehensive of a railroad disaster. So it happened, 
however, we arrived safe. The skill of his hand was 
demonstrated in a manner truly astonishing. In the neigh- 
bourhood of London, on so great a thoroughfare, at that 
hour of the day, the road is lined with coaches, carriages, 
and vehicles of various sorts, of pleasure or of burden ; and 
to dash through them and by them at such a furious rate — 
to run a turnpike, when others are stopping to pay the toll, 
guiding horses as quick to spring as dogs and cats, and all 
safe — seems like a miracle of the art. 

But to the matter of my training. — We stopped a long 
time at the Peacock, as nearly all the passengers and their 
luggage were set down at that place ; and being on the box, 
it ■-. me my duty to hold the reins and whip. Having be- 
fore given sufficient proof of my awkwardness in these func- 
tions, and the coachman being in a mood easily tempted to 
make mischief, just reviving and coming to himself from an 
agreeable delirium, I verily believe he detained the coach 
fifteen or twenty minutes longer than was necessary, to 
make a public example of his new pupil, in that notable 
concentration of the multitude of idlers. He came and 
went times not a few, at each visitation adjusting the reins 
and whip in my hands, and giving a lesson, or sending up a 



62 COMICAL NAMES OF INNS. 

hint, as he stood below on the pavement — all in a manner 
not to be complained of, and very courteous. 

By this time the lamps lighted the town, and we drove 
down through St. John's-street into Smithfield, when, lo ! 
the full blaze and the dense crowds of Bartholomew Fair 
opened upon us, with all the din of its music, dancing, jug- 
glery, and its wild and boisterous mirth. The horses 
pricked up their ears, and were as unwilling to advance 
against these strange and menacing sights, and this deafen- 
ing uproar, as the crowds were to open and let us pass. 
With much ado, however, our fearless and adroit coachman 
urged his way at the peril of being mobbed, and penetrated 
the entire mass from one side to the other, passing through 
and running down a lane into Skinner-street, where, directly 
at the foot of the tower of St. Sepulchre, we entered a nar- 
row passage, and were dropped at the Saracen's Head. 

The names of inns in England are sometimes very amu- 
sing. For example : Sivan with Two Necks. Bull and 
Mouth, one of the largest in London, opposite the General 
Postoffice. There has been a great deal of learned com- 
mentary exhausted, without avail, to settle the origin of this 
name. The sign is a most frightful mouth, as of a non- 
descript monster, and a bull of a somewhat natural shape. 
At Birmingham you have the Hen and Chickens, a firstrate 
hotel, where, it is reasonably presumed, may be had a bit of 
fowl and eggs. What connexion a Pig and Whistle may 
have had with each other to entitle the use of this name for 
an inn, history doth not aver. The Old Red Heifer is no 
otherwise monstrous than being a little paradoxical. Crab 
and Lobster are at least homogeneous, and promise a good 
dinner to those who are fond of fish. A Bag of Nails is not 
particularly sublime, on account of its tendency to descend 
by the force of gravitation. A Ship and Shovel was doubt- 
less intended to show the connexion between agriculture 
and commerce. Bolt-in-Tun has baffled all attempts of the 
learned to expound; and millions, who, in the course of 
time, have started from or lighted down at that sign in 
Fleet-street, London, have probably been puzzled with this 
question. Labour in Vain is intelligible enough on the face 
of it, and many a poor man has felt what it is ; but the 
meaning, in such a case, is not so obvious. Three Foxes 
may sound agreeably to the sportsmen of England, who are 
sufficiently happy if they can start one from a cover. Four 
Awls was probably first set up by a cobbler, who wished to 
preserve in memory the tools by which he had procured a 
capital to rise in the world. A Pickled Egg is a rarity. A 
Hog in the Pound is very fit, if he had been let go by the 
owner to injure a neighbour's garden ; but a Hog in Armour 
is by no means an ordinary sight, and would be likely to at- 



"warren's blacking — Morrison's pills. 63 

tract crowds. The Bear and Ragged Staff might perhaps be 
improved, since a pattern more civilized has been set up in 
the Zoological Gardens, Regent's Park. The origin of Cock 
and Bottle must doubtless remain a subject of deep study ; 
but the Cat and Boot belongs to the present generation, and 
points directly to Warren 's Blacking, 30, Strand ; or, perhaps, 
Bay 4- Martin would assert a claim to the honour of such 
notoriety. In the advertising columns of the London jour- 
nals and periodicals may always be seen a cat bristling, or a 
cock fighting, at his own shadow, or some other invention of 
the kind, as reflected from a boot polished by Warren's 
blacking. 

Besides employing men to paint " Warren's Blacking, 30, 
Strand" in letters from six to eighteen inches long, on the 
brick walls along the public roads in approaching London, 
so that the passenger can hardly ever get out of the sight, 
as he goes into or out of the metropolis, even for many 
miles distance, Warren employs, uninterruptedly, nearly 
every paper and periodical of London, and extensively over 
the empire, with various other modes, to exhibit his name 
and stand ; and also a poet, of the cleverest abilities, who 
does nothing else (except such exercises as may improve 
this faculty), but to vary his metre and modes of illustration, 
in singing the praises of Warren's Blacking. It may be seen 
on the walls all over the kingdom; and a traveller nar- 
rates, that the first thing that attracted his attention when 
he entered Rome, as when one enters London, was the same 
inscription, displayed in the usual style on the walls — 
" Warren's Blacking, 30, Strand." It did not add, " London" 
— for that was as unnecessary as for Napoleon to hail from 
the " Tuileries, Paris." Warren has a retired and not very 
extravagant mansion at Hemdon, ten miles from London ; 
keeps his carriage ; goes in it to London in the morning, 
puts on his apron, and works all day in his shop ; and re- 
turns in his carriage in the evening. I have seen it stated, 
that £250,000, or $1,200,000, are annually expended in 
London for advertising the single article of blacking. 

The celebrated empiric Dr. Morrison pays to Government 
upwards of £7,000 ($33,600) a year, in the way of a tax of 
three halfpence on each pillbox. His boxes are of two sizes : 
one retails at a shilling, and the other at sixpence. Suppose 
he sells an equal number of both, which would make the 
average per box eightpence ; allow for tax, materials, and 
making of the pills, and discount to the trade, fourpence, 
the net profit to himself would then be £37,666, or $180,796, 
annually ! The professional practice of Mr. Brodie, Saville- 
street, sergeant surgeon to the king, has been stated to me, 
by credible authority, to be worth £15,000, or $42,000, a 
year. In reputation as a surgeon, Mr. Brodie is second 



64 HYDE PARK. 

only to Sir Astley Cooper. How much more profitable is 
empiricism than science and art ! and some of the greatest 
fortunes made in Europe have been in the manufacture of 
boot-blacking ! What a quantity must be sold in London to 
afford an advertising bill of .£250,000 annually ! 

St. John Long's empirical secret was left sealed by him, 
price £10,000; not to be opened before bought. It has 
been taken on the terms of his will — a pig in the poke. 

It has been ascertained, that the careless and imperfect 
mixing of the ingredients of Morrison's pills, often leaves 
the powerful agents in one part of the mass, before it is 
made into pills, which kills those who happen to have a 
box of that portion — while the rest may be swallowed with 
as much impunity as so many bits of dough from the 
kneading-trough. 



BEST APPROACH TO LONDON. 

If one wishes to get the pleasantest impressions on en- 
tering London for the first time, I should by all means ad- 
vise him to go in through Knightsbridge, by Hyde Park 
Corner, in the daytime. If it happens to be in the spring, 
when all the nobility and gentry are in town, and a sunshiny 
day, in the afternoon, at any time from three to six o'clock 
— better from four to five — he will then see for the first 
time, not only a truly imposing display of long lines of the 
most magnificent and costly mansions, public and private, 
surrounding the richest and most beautiful parks in the 
world, but there will be presented to his view, as he passes 
along, a moving world of the richest equipage, which the 
boundless wealth and the pride of England concentrate in 
the metropolis at this season of the year, together with 
stage and hackney coaches, omnibuses, cabriolets, and foot- 
passengers, without number ; — all in their best dress and 
most splendid livery, rolling and crowding along that spa- 
cious avenue, and swarming in the great park like bees at 
the mouth of a hive in a May-day sun ; each one not seem- 
ing to regard the movements of the vast throngs that are 
justling by him in their different ways, and seeking their 
own pleasures. If he enters London by Kensington in a 
private carriage, so as to have the privilege (for no public 
or common vehicle may go that way) of passing into Hyde 
Park at the turnpike gate, — or if he is on horse or on foot, 
as he enters those rural grounds, he will have Kensington 
Gardens on his left, imbosoming by their impenetrable 
shades Kensington Palace, tenanted by the Duke of Sussex, 



AH-HA ! 65 

the Dutchess of Kent, and the Princess Victoria, heir-pre- 
sumptive to the British throne. At the opening of a single 
avenue through the trees, he will catch a glimpse of the 
royal, but humble dwelling. Before him is every irregu- 
larity of natural scenery, — of uneven grounds, of sheets of 
water, of copses of aged and magnificent oaks, and every 
here and there single trees, variegating the scene. As he 
advances, a heavy swell of harmony, or a soft melodious 
strain of sweet music, bursts upon his ear. He inclines 
that way, and soon there opens upon his view an immense 
crowd of gayly-dressed persons, promenading under the 
shades within the range of Kensington Gardens ; old and 
young, male and female, the mother with her daughters, the 
nurse with the little ones ; larger and smaller parties ; indi- 
viduals alone ; some sitting in chairs, some standing, some 
walking, — but all observing a common centre, where stands 
the royal band from Knightsbridge barracks, in their plumes 
and elegant attire, whose duty it is to entertain the public 
with the best of their performances for two or three hours 
in the afternoon. Along the Ah-ha !* which separates Ken- 
sington Gardens from Hyde Park, and within the latter, is 
drawn up a regiment of mounted ladies and gentlemen, list- 
ening to the music, as they sit upon their horses, as if them- 
selves and their beasts were alike charmed ; and the moment 
the band have finished the performance of the piece, and 
pause to rest, away the whole mounted party dash upon full 
gallop, like a portion of an army, though not with equal dis- 
cipline, and in scattered lengthened train make the round of 
the park, some two or three miles, appearing again at the 
same point stationary as before, waiting for the band to 
strike up another piece in their accustomed superior style. 
While this troop are making the circuit of the park, the foot 
assemblage in the gardens (which, by-the-by, are nothing 
more or less than a grove of forest-trees, principally oak) 
disperse among the shades or along the margin of the grove, 
and make their return, surrounding the band, simultaneously 
with the mounted party, to be enraptured again by the ex- 
quisite performances of these trained and professional mu- 
sicians. They are always the band of the regiment of 
Horse Guards that may happen to be stationed at the 
Knightsbridge barracks for the time being ; and perhaps 
there is no class of musicians in the world more skilled 
in their art than the several bands of the household troops 
of the King of Great Britain. 

As the stranger passes from the west end of Hyde Park 

* " Ah-ha /" — An enclosure, composed of a deep ditch, walled on one 
side, all below the surface of the ground, to prevent disfiguring parks and 
pleasure-grounds, and interrupting prospects. It is not seen till one 
comes immediately upon it, and is taken by surprise. Hence the name 
Ah-ha ! — an exclamation. 

6* 



66 EXTENT OF HYDE PARK. 

to the east, from the point occupied by this band, he will 
discover two principal ways leading in the same direc- 
tion. — one for carriages, and the other for horses. The 
former is nearest to and runs parallel with the public high- 
way, between the one and the other of which is a high 
wall and a margin of trees some few rods in breadth, run- 
ning from one end of the park to the other. The way for 
those on horseback runs nearly equidistant between the 
carriage-road and a broad sheet of water, constituting a 
lake in the centre oi the park, which is created by dam- 
ming the Serpentine River (a rivulet) ; and at the point of 
this dam within the park is an artificial cascade, where the 
waters of the river plunge down the shelving rocks, laid 
there by the hand of man. into an abyss, that is over- 
shadowed by a thick plantation of trees, ail irregular and 
natural, as if it were a work of God*s creation. A heavy 
and magnificent stone bridge, of the finest architecture, is 
thrown across these waters, corresponding with the east 
line of Kensington Gardens and the west of the park, 
which is passed in the circle of this favourite and beautiful 
drive around this enchanting enclosure. The northwest 
regions of the park are a forest planted on undulating 
grounds, where herds of deer and cattle are seen, as famil- 
iar with the sight of this splendid equipage, rolling and 
rattling around their domain, as with the oaks which over- 
shadow them ; and as little startled at the one as the other. 

Hyde Park contains 395 acres, and is the favourite resort 
of the nobility and gentry of London, for airing in car- 
riages, on horseback, and on foot. Towards the decline 
of every sunn}' day, a perpetual and endless tide of the 
fashionable population roll out of that huge and vast me- 
tropolis, and pour into these pleasure-grounds, as if they 
could never be counted, to breathe the purer air. and to 
display their equipage and finery. The grounds are left 
as nature made them, uneven, and clustering with forest 
scenery, as nature might be supposed to have planted it. in 
the midst of which lies the broad and extended sheet of 
water before described. The eastern portion of the park 
is vacant of trees, and appropriated for reviews of troops, 
when occasion demands. 

On the east boundary of the park, about half a mile long, 
the stranger beholds, as he approaches it, one continuous 
and solid front of magnificent houses, each diverse from 
every other, but the entire range grand and imposing. — 
which constitutes the west line of that vast and compact 
portion of the metropolis, commonly called the West End. 
Half way on the northern boundary of the park is another 
imposing front, of that portion of the metropolis which 
lies in the northwest. There are four grand entrances 10 
Hyde Park : one at the northeast corner, two on the east, 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 67 

and one on the southeast, which is known all over the 
world as Hyde Park Corner. From this point distances are 
reckoned from the whole southwest and west of England. 

The entrance is composed of three grand archways for 
carriages, two for foot-passengers, and a lodge, the entire 
frontage extending 107 feet. The arches are supported by- 
fluted Ionic columns, and the gates are bronzed iron ; the 
whole constituting an architectural screen of the most 
chaste and beautiful description. Directly opposite, as an 
entrance to the gardens of the king's palaces — St. James 
and Pimlico — is a grand triumphal arch of a far more impo- 
sing structure. At this corner, the beginning and west end 
of the north line of Piccadilly, is Apsley House, or the 
palace of the Duke of Wellington, if palace it may be called. 
A few rods within this corner is a colossal statue of Achil- 
les, eighteen feet in height, cast from twenty- four-pounders, 
taken at the battles of Salamanca, Yittoria, Toulouse, and 
Waterloo, weighing thirty tons, and inscribed to " Arthur 
Duke of Wellington, and his brave companions in arms, by 
his countrywomen." Observe: It is a naked statue, inscribed 
by his countrywomen ! 

From Hyde Park Corner the stranger turns his eye from 
a large body of the metropolis in the southwest, composed 
of Knightsbridge, Chelsea, Pimlico, and Brompton, and 
from that magnificent corner opposite the grand triumphal 
arch, St. George's Hospital, down the spacious line of Pic- 
cadilly, which is full of all the world, rumbling onward 
either way, like the noise of an earthquake ; and over 
Green Park, which is half as large as Hyde Park, having 
Piccadilly on the north, and another range of princely 
houses on the east, the southern termination of which is 
the palace built by the Duke of York, now the property of 
the Duke of Sutherland, and which covers the royal pal- 
ace of St. James. Just over the royal gardens of Pimlico 
is descried the new palace, formerly Buckingham House, 
and now about to be tenanted by the king. Farther on, 
between the new palace on the right and the Duke of 
Sutherland's on the left, and over the dense shades which 
cover St. James's Park on the north, called the Mall, rise 
peering towards heaven the lofty towers and long heavy 
roof of Westminster Abbey, that venerable pile of ancient 
and religious architecture, of its kind the peculiar pride of 
the British metropolis, where lie entombed the relics of 
Britain's renowned and mighty dead — her poets, her states- 
men, her military and naval chieftains, mingling their 
ashes with those who served under the mitre, and were 
deemed worthy of this distinction. 

Onward the stranger moves, and soon finds himself buried 
in the mighty city. On his left, as he passes along Picca- 
dilly, is a vast field and a weight of houses, that might break 



68 WEST END. 

through the erust of the globe if it were not thick and 
strong. On his right, too, he beholds an amazing cluster of 
similar structures heaped together. He passes the street of 
St. James, and looks down on the palace of that name, which, 
for the meanness of its external show, might be mistaken 
for an old brewery or a livery-stable. Old Bond-street — 
the famous old Bond-street — comes next on his left, of 
more reputation than its opening would seem to indicate ; 
but nevertheless, the English, who like old ways better than 
new ones, still manifest a lingering partiality to this old, 
favourite avenue, and go a-shopping there because their 
fathers and their mothers did. What a crowd of carriages ! 
— two lines running through and through — the coachmen 
and footmen fighting for their rights. What a rich display 
of goods and gold in the windows as plentiful as stones in 
the streets ! Alas ! how many husbands are ruined by the 
stopping of those carriages ! 

Now comes Regent-street — new, grand, more show than 
substance ; the Quadrant, a peculiar beauty ; the two cir- 
cuses, if I may bring two such distant points so near to- 
gether ; and if I may travel with the stranger a little north, 
while going east, there is Portland Place, continuous from 
Regent-street, the most spacious and by far the grandest 
street in the metropolis, leading to a region requiring too 
particular a description to be noticed here. As we travel 
back from Portland Place, we may take a look to the right 
and left into Oxford-street, long, spacious, beautiful, rich, 
and full of bustle. At the foot of Regent-street there is 
Waterloo Place, spacious and grand ; magnificent club- 
houses ; the Duke of York's monument, standing on the 
site of Carlton House, the favourite mansion of the last 
Prince of Wales ; Carlton Terrace, also magnificent ; Pall 
Mali ; the King's Theatre and Haymarket. Next, Tra- 
falgar Square ; Charing Cross, looking down through Par- 
liament-street to the Parliament Houses and Westminster 
Abbey ; the Strand; Temple Bar; and here for the present 
we rest, to introduce the stranger to London within the 
walls, and to a more particular description of this vast me- 
tropolis, in another place. 



CORONATION. 69 



CORONATION OF WILLIAM IV. 

Comparison with that of George IV. — The Pageant without and within — 
The Regalia — The Ceremonies and Coronation — Festivities and illu- 
minations — Queen Caroline's Disgrace and Death — A Coronation Ban- 
quet — The King's Champion and his Challenge. 

If the coronation of William IV. had less of preparation 
and show than that of George IV., there was also less of 
anxiety in the mind of the prince, and a less perturbed state 
of the public mind. The claims of Queen Caroline had 
annoyed her royal consort, and kept the nation in great ex- 
citement. The coronation was even deferred a year after 
the first appointment — from the 1st of August, 1820, to July 
19th, 1821 — on account of the unexpected arrival of the 
queen from the Continent, and her avowed determination 
to claim the prerogatives of queen-consort. 

The well-known cessation of the conjugal connexion be- 
tween the Prince of Wales and the Princess Caroline Amelia 
Elizabeth, after a train of painful events, had banished or 
led her to the Continent, till the death of George III. and 
the accession of her husband to the throne. A provision 
3f .£50,000, or $240,000, had been put by the government at 
tier disposal and use, in the hope that she would be content 
to remain abroad, and not assert her rights as Queen of 
England. On the 10th of May, 1820, summonses were 
issued to the peers of the United Kingdom to attend the 
coronation of George IV. on the 1st of August. On the 6th 
3f June the queen landed at Dover, proceeded to London 
under the most marked demonstrations of popular welcome, 
and signified her intention to claim a participation in the 
rites and ceremonies of coronation. The coronation was 
leferred indefinitely ; a bill of pains and penalties was 
wrought into the House of Lords against the queen for con- 
jugal infidelity ; she was tried and acquitted ; but was still 
ienied the honours of a queen. On the 19th of July, 1821, 
the second day appointed for the coronation, she made her 
appearance at Westminster Abbey at an early hour, and was 
refused admittance ; she then presented herself at the door 
3f the House of Lords, and was excluded there. She then 
returned to her house — in a few days sickened — and died on 
the 7th of August, saying, " They have destroyed me — my 
disease is here" — pointing to her heart. She " hailed death 
as a friend," and " forgave all her enemies." 

Queen Caroline was believed by the people to be inno- 
cent. They had all along taken her part against the king 
and her accusers ; and the scene of her going to Westmin- 



70 CORONATION. 

ster Abbey and to the House of Lords, on the day of the 
coronation, was public, in presence of the assembled nation, 
And the excitement occasioned by her disgrace may easiei 
be conceived than described. The day was the farthest 
possible from being a happy one to any and to all concern 
ed ; and no one could be indifferent. 

Not so the coronation of William IV. ten years after- 
ward. The English, who are a king-loving people, if the 
king behaves well, had many good reasons for cherishing an 
ardent affection for the reigning monarch. All his acts had 
been popular. He had called around his throne a popular 
ministry ; he had dissolved a parliament that had refused to 
undertake reform, and called on the people to elect a new 
House of Commons. He was in all respects the man of 
the people — that is, of the great majority of the nation; 
and the queen, if not equally beloved, was at least unob- 
noxious — was respected. Every thing contributed to make 
the day of his coronation a grateful and joyous one. 

The great expense of the coronation of George IV. and 
the thousand wasteful extravagances of his life and reign, 
which added no trifling fraction to the vast burdens of 
the nation, were all too sensibly felt by Parliament and by 
the public, to justify such another prodigal expenditure for 
a coronation pageant. But, notwithstanding this prevailing 
spirit of economy, and the comparative want of interest — 
forasmuch as the impressions of the last and recent occasion 
of the kind were not particularly grateful — yet the arrange- 
ments were on a scale in no small degree imposing; and 
the popularity of the prince was sure to draw to one centre, 
from such a city as London, and from such a country as 
England, a countless multitude, to witness the public cere- 
monials of his consecration. To a republican eye, such a 
pageant, which is rarely afforded to the subjects of kings, 
and as one of the public demonstrations of regal honour 
and dignity, it would be affectation in me to say that it had 
no attractions. 

As for obtaining a ticket for the Abbey, it was out of 
the question for any but certain classes, viz. the peers and 
their families (a very numerous class in Great Britain); 
members and high officers of government ; members of the 
House of Commons ; ministers and ambassadors of foreign 
nations ; bishops and favoured clergy, generally those known 
and in favour at court ; numerous connexions of all these 
classes ; and, lastly, those who were willing to occupy most 
disadvantageous seats, among the vulgar, or behind the 
columns of the edifice, at the" comfortable price of fifteen, 
or twenty, or thirty guineas each. Besides, those who 
were admitted to the ceremonies within the walls of the 
Abbey must necessarily be deprived of the opportunities of 
observing the extraordinary, and, in many respects, more 



CORONATION. 71 

imposing pageant without: such as the artillery, brought 
into St. James's Park for the occasion : regiments of house- 
hold troops, of horse and foot, in their most glittering attire, 
lining the grand avenue appropriated to the procession, from 
the palace to the Abbey, by the way of Pall Mall, Charing 
Cross, and Parliament-street, all reflecting the beams of the 
sun from their burnished armour and military trappings ; the 
metropolitan police, and their modes of operation ; the 
dense crowds, occupying every foot of ground in all direc- 
tions not kept open for the procession ; the temporary scaf- 
foldings and platforms, erected along the entire line, and 
burdened with their tens of thousands of well-dressed people 
of both sexes ; the doors, windows, balconies, and roofs of 
houses, exhibiting their waiting and gazing throngs; the 
constant stream of carriages, belonging to the nobility and 
others, moving all the morning to the Abbey under their 
burdens, with coachmen and footmen in their best livery ; 
the occasional passing of public and distinguished persons, 
with their suites, and their recognition by the multitudes — 
such, for example, as the Duke of Wellington, rolled on in 
solemn silence, as if to a funeral, or Lord Brougham, hailed 
by the shouts and acclamations of all ; the different mem- 
bers of the royal family and their separate suites ; carriage 
after carriage of four, six, or eight horses, with a groom at 
the head of every animal, and footmen, two, three, and four, 
all in the richest livery, covered with gold ; troops of gen- 
tlemen-at-arms on foot; and, lastly, the state carriage, a 
piece of old magnificence, drawn by eight cream-coloured 
horses, with the king and queen, preceded, followed, and 
flanked by the household troops, a grand and most imposing 
display, while the countless thousands shouted their joyous 
acclamations, waving hats and handkerchiefs all along, as 
their majesties passed, like the wind that moves to and fro 
the arms and foliage of the dense forest ; — all animated by 
the successive bands of music, which had their places at 
different stages of the long procession. Such as these, and 
nameless others of their kind, changing variously through- 
out the day, were features of the scene without, too inter- 
esting and attractive to be lost by a stranger, if he had never 
seen the like before, even though he might purchase it by 
the sacrifice of a tolerable view of what was passing within. 
I had visited and walked along the entire line of proces- 
sion the day previous with a friend, to see if we could select 
a satisfactory position. Everywhere were to be seen adver- 
tisements for seals to view the procession, with various com- 
mendations of their superlative merits, the price of tickets 
graduated on a scale of wholes and halves, from five guineas 
down to ten shillings and sixpence. The choice was so 
embarrassing that we chose to keep our money, and run 
the chance for a selection the next day ; m which decision 



72 CORONATION. 

we were very wise. For, in case we had purchased tickets 
for any platform, or window, or housetop, we should have 
felt obliged to resort to it at the earliest hour, and retain 
the place all day, with no variety of views except what 
could have been had at the point assumed. As it was, we 
were at liberty to range from one end of the line to the 
other, while the crowds were collecting in the morning, 
and those who had tickets were taking up their positions ; 
to go round about the Abbey, and witness the preparations 
and movements there ; to stroll into St. James's Park ; 
to see the members of parliament, in their full dress and 
various costume, cross the street from the parliamentary 
buildings to the sacred edifice ; to notice the various mili- 
tary and police arrangements, and their order ; and finally, 
to obtain a most advantageous position in the garden of St. 
Margaret, directly under the shade of Westminster Abbey, 
where, within a few feet of the procession, we had a per- 
fect view of the king and queen, as they came and went, 
being able to distinguish the minutest features of their 
faces, and all the various and most interesting public exhi- 
bitions of the day. 

The ceremonies of consecration within the Abbey are 
long and complicated; the Archbishop of Canterbury, Pri- 
mate of all England, being the officiating priest for the 
occasion — for which service he is endowed, as a fee, with 
"the purple velvet chair, the cushion, and the footstool 
assigned to him during the ceremony." 

The Regalia employed on this occasion, and which may 
be seen at the Tower of London, are : — The Crown — the 
Sceptre — the Verge, or Rod of Power — the Orb, or mound 
of Sovereignty — the Swords of Mercy and of Justice — the 
Ring of Alliance with the kingdom — the Armillae, or Brace- 
lets — the Spurs of Chivalry — the Ampulla, or Golden Eagle 
— the Coronation Chair, &c. The new imperial crown 
made for George IV. has the appearance of a heavy mass 
of diamonds, and is surmounted by a pearl of immense 
value. It is an extravagant trinket, and so, perhaps, are 
some other parts of the Regalia. 

All being assembled, and in their appropriate places, the 
archbishop addresses the people as follows : — 

" Sirs, I here present to you King William the Fourth," 
or whoever he may be, " the undoubted king of this realm. 
Wlierefore, all ye that are come this day to do your hom- 
age, are ye willing to do the same ?" 

The people respond — " God save King William the 
Fourth." And the trumpets sound. 

Then comes what is called " The First Oblation," accom- 
panied with an offering of a pound weight of gold, during 
which the king kneels by the altar, and the people join in 



CORONATION. 73 

the service. After this a sermon ; then the " Coronation 
Oath," after this manner : — 

The Archbishop of Canterbury asks the king, " Sir, is 
your majesty willing to take the oath !" The king answers, 
" I am willing." 

The archbishop then proposes to the king the following 
questions : — 

" Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the 
people of this kingdom of Great Britain, and the dominions 
thereunto belonging, according to the statutes in Parlia- 
ment agreed on, and the respective laws and customs of 
the same ?" 

King. " I solemnly promise so to do." 

Archbishop. " Will you, to the utmost of your power, 
cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your 
judgments V 

King. "I will." 

Archbishop. " Will you, to the utmost of your power, 
maintain the laws of God, the true profession of the Gospel, 
and the Protestant Reformed Religion established by law % 
And will you maintain and preserve inviolably the settle- 
ment of the Church of England, and the doctrines, worship, 
discipline, and government thereof, as by law established, 
within the kingdoms of England and Ireland, the dominion 
of Wales, and town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, and the terri- 
tories thereunto belonging before the union of the two king- 
doms \ And will you preserve unto the bishops and clergy 
of England, and the churches there committed to their 
charge, all such rights and privileges as by law do or shall 
appertain unto them, or any of them V 

King. " All this I promise to do." 

Then the king approaches and kneels at the altar, lays his 
hand upon the Gospels in the open Bible, and says, " The 
things which I have here before promised, I will perform and 
keep. So help me God;" and then kisses the book and 
signs the oath. 

Next the Anointing, beginning with the anthem — " Veni, 
Creator Spiritus." After which the archbishop prays : — " O 
Lord, Holy Father, who, by anointing with oil, didst of old 
make and consecrate kings, priests, and prophets, to teach 
and govern thy people Israel, bless and sanctify thy chosen 
servant William, who by our office and ministry is now to 
be anointed with this holy oil, and consecrated king of this 
realm. Strengthen him, O Lord, with the Holy Ghost, the 
Comforter. Confirm and establish him with thy pure and 
princely spirit, the spirit of wisdom and government, the 
spirit of counsel and ghostly strength, the spirit of knowl- 
edge and true godliness ; and fill him, O Lord, with the spirit 
of thy holy fear, now and for ever. Amen." 

Then comes the coronation anthem : — " Zadock the priest 
D 7 



74 CORONATION. 

and Nathan the prophet anointed Solomon king. And all 
the people rejoiced, and said, God save the king ; long live | 
the king; may the king live for ever. Amen. Halle- 
lujah." 

The king seated in the chair of state, the ampulla, or 
golden eagle, being a vessel of capacity, containing the 
anointing oil, is brought from off the altar, where it has been 
consecrated, and from the eagle's beak the oil is poured into 
a spoon with four pearls set in the handle, by which the 
archbishop anoints the king in the form of a cross. 

1. On the crown of the head, saying, "Be thy head 
anointed with holy oil, as kings, priests, and prophets were 
anointed." 

2. Over the breast, saying, " Be thy breast anointed with 
holy oil." 

3. On the palms of both the hands, saying, " Be thy hands 
anointed with holy oil." 

" And as Solomon was anointed king by Zadock the priest 
and Nathan the prophet, so be thou anointed, blessed, and 
consecrated over this people, whom the Lord thy God hath 
given thee to rule and govern, in the name of the Father, 
and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." 

The king then kneels at the altar, and the archbishop prays 
over him ; after which the places anointed are wiped with 
fine linen. 

The king is next presented with the spurs and a sword, 
which he returns to the altar. Another sword is brought, 
which the archbishop lays upon the altar, and then prays : — 
" Hear our prayers, O Lord, we beseech thee ; and so direct 
and support thy servant King William, who is now to be be- 
girt with this sword, that he may not bear it in vain ; but 
may use it as the minister of God, for the terror and punish- 
ment of evil-doers, and for the protection and encourage- 
ment of those that do well, through Jesus Christ our Lord. 
Amen." 

The sword is then taken from the altar by the archbishop, 
who, attended by the bishops, delivers it into the king's right 
hand, saying, " Receive this kingly sword, brought now from 
the altar of God, and delivered to you by the hands of us 
the bishops and servants of God, though unworthy." 

The king being then begirt with the sword, the archbishop 
says to him, " Remember him of whom the royal psalmist 
did prophesy, saying, Gird thee with thy sword upon thy 
thigh, O thou most mighty, good luck have thou with thine 
honour, ride on prosperously, &c. With this sword do jus- 
tice," &c. — a service of some length, for the several specific 
objects of regal administration. 

The king, being ungirded, returns to the chair of state, 
when the chief peer offers the price of the sword, one hun- 
dred shillings (a nominal value, doubtless), which is the act of 



CORONATION. 75 

its redemption (from the altar, as I suppose, or from the 
hand of the priest). 

Next follows an investiture with the armillae, or bracelets, 
and the royal robe, with the delivery of the orb, the mound 
of sovereignty, accompanied by sanctions from the priest- 
hood. Also an investiture with the ring and gloves by sim- 
ilar sanctions. 

The king then sits down in the coronation chair, and the 
crown is brought from the altar with great solemnity by the 
archbishop and bishops, and placed upon the king's head by 
the archbishop, when the people, with loud and repeated 
shouts, cry, " God save the king ;" the trumpets sound, and 
at the same moment, by a given signal, the great guns of the 
Tower, and the artillery at other stations, announce the 
transaction to all within hearing, the cries of the people 
without mingle in the general acclamations, and the bells 
ring joyously. 

The archbishop then says, " Be strong and of good cour- 
age ; observe the commandments of God, and walk in his 
holy ways ; fight the good fight of faith, and lay hold on eter- 
nal life ; that in this world you may be crowned with suc- 
cess and honour, and when you have finished your course, 
you may receive a crown of righteousness, which God the 
righteous judge shall give you in that day." 

The king is then presented with the Bible by the archbish- 
op, with appropriate injunctions to obey it, " as the royal law." 

After which an anthem ; and the king being crowned, the 
nobility put on their coronets and caps. 

Next the " benediction" by the archbishop, to which the 
peers and people say, " Amen." After which, the king, sit- 
ting in his chair, kisses the archbishop and assistant bishops 
successively, as they approach him, kneeling for the pur- 
pose. The " Te Deum" is then performed by the choir. 

The Te Deum being ended, the king, remaining passive, 
is conducted to and formally installed on the throne by the 
archbishop, bishops, and peers ; which is called the act of 
" enthronization." Being surrounded by all the great offi- 
cers, nobles, and bishops, the archbishop then delivers to 
the king an exhortation : — " Stand firm, and hold fast, from 
henceforth, the seat and imperial dignity," &c. 

Homage is next done by the bishops and nobles in succes- 
sion, kneeling before the king. The bishops first, kneeling 
together, say all and each for himself, as follows : — " I, A. 
B., will be faithful and true, and faith and truth will bear 
unto you, our sovereign lord, &c. So help me God." Then 
the nobles, in the same manner kneeling, say together, each 
for himself: — "I, A. B., do become your liege man of life 
and limb, and of earthly worship, and faith and truth I will 
bear unto you, to live and die, against all manner of folks. 
So help me God." 

D 2 



76 CORONATION. 

In the meantime medals of gold and silver are thrown 
about among the people by the treasurer of the household, 
as the king's largesse or donative. The peers, having done 
their homage, lay aside their coronets, and approach the 
king in succession, stretching forth their hands, and touch- 
ing the crown on the king's head, as signifying their devo- 
tion to its support and honour; and kiss the king's cheek. 

The king delivers the two sceptres to the custody of the 
proper persons, and after an anthem and various music, the 
drums beat, the trumpets sound, and all the people shout, — 

" God save King William the Fourth! 
Long live King William ! 
May the king live for ever !" 

After the " second oblation," a mark weight of gold, the 
king, having descended from the throne, approaches and 
kneels at the altar, and receives the holy sacrament pub- 
licly from the administration of the archbishop ; and the 
whole ceremony of coronation is concluded by another 
sermon. 

This account is, of course, a mere sketch of the cere- 
monies of the day, besides that I have omitted altogether 
the part which the queen had in these solemnities — it being 
a virtual repetition, with such variations as were suited to 
the difference of her relations. She was crowned in like 
manner, and entered into similar engagements, with like 
forms. When George IV. was crowned, Queen Caroline 
having been refused participation, the service applicable to 
the queen was of course omitted. The entire ceremonies 
within the Abbey, on the present occasion, occupied about 
five hours, from" 11 to 4 o'clock. The king and queen left 
the palace of St. James at 10 in the morning; occupied 
three quarters of an hour in the public procession to the 
Abbey, — three quarters of a mile by the route pursued, 
through Pall Mall and Parliament-street; alighted at the 
west door of the Abbey at a quarter before 11 ; returned to 
the palace at 4 o'clock with like pomp, wearing their ordi- 
nary state crowns, which had been substituted for those 
more gorgeous ones used at the coronation; and were 
thus exhibited from the open state carriage, as they moved 
slowly along, to the immense and joyous throngs which 
overflowed and crammed the streets, filled every door and 
window, were piled upon the scaffoldings erected for the 
occasion, hung out in the balconies, and swarmed on the 
roofs of every house, waving hats and handkerchiefs, and 
rending the air with their acclamations of joy. 

Six salutes of twenty-one guns were fired during the day, 
responding to each other from the Tower of London, three 
miles down the river, and from St. James's Park, imme- 
diately behind the palace: 1. at sunrise; 2. at 10 o'clock, 



CORONATION. 77 

when the king and queen left the palace ; 3. when they 
alighted at Westminster Abbey ; 4. when the crowns were 
placed upon their heads ; 5. when they returned ; and, 6. at 
sunset. Simultaneously with the salutes, all the bells of 
the metropolis rung their merry peals, with St. Paul's deep- 
toned and hoarse salutation as the base of the chorus, while 
the national flag waved in the wind from the heights of 
every parish steeple. 

While the festivities of the royal palace were being held, 
for the amusement of the populace the evening was prin- 
cipally devoted to illuminations ; the theatres were opened 
gratuitously ; fireworks were displayed in the parks, and at 
other public resorts ; and lighted balloons sent up into the 
clouds — all at the command of the king and at the expense 
of the treasury. 

The throngs in the streets continued immense till late at 
night. I walked with a friend through the principal streets 
of the west end, where the illuminations were most con- 
siderable — of various, most ingenious, and fantastic devices 
— always, however, representing in some form the initials, 
or full names, of the king and queen — the principal centre 
of which ordinarily would be a crown. For the most part 
the figures and character of the devices were described by 
lamps of various colours, and so ingeniously arranged on 
wires as to produce the intended effect. Here and there a 
temporary gas machinery had been erected, on which the 
slightest breeze would occasion a sportful dance of lights 
and shadows by blowing out some portions, and lighting 
others, in rapid succession — at one moment showing the 
whole tracery in full blaze, and then only parts, flitting about 
apparently in the most whimsical manner. The vast multi- 
tudes attracted to the principal rounds of these exhibitions 
literally crammed the streets, and in many places nearly 
obstructed all passing, while the half were pushing to go 
one way and half the other. In the meantime all the thea- 
tres and places of fireworks were also crowded — while the 
king and court, the nobles and higher ranks, were feasting 
at their tables. The effect of the night-scenes without 
was magnificent and dazzling ; and the gayety and hilarity 
of all within, in such a state of public tranquillity, were no 
doubt equal to the anticipations of those who sought their 
pleasures in festivity and the dance. 

At the coronation of George the Fourth, in 1821, the prep- 
arations for which had been made on such an immense and 
splendid scale, one would suppose that the whole must have 
been imbittered by the sympathy of the public mind with 
the disappointed, martyred, and heart-stricken queen, who 
retired from the insults publicly offered to her that day, to 
die of grief. How different the scene of the royal banquet 
at Westminster Hall that evening from the closet of Caro- 
7* 



78 A BILL OF PARE. 

line in South Audley-street ! In the former was the feast- 
ing of a king and his nobles, in a style of magnificence 
rivalled only by the ancient kings of the east, on the night 
of his coronation, where every thing bore the semblance of 
joy and gladness, the king himself at the head of his own 
royal table, surrounded and supported by the chief nobles 
and the beauty of his realm — all under the blaze and splen- 
dour of the artificial creations of light, by which they were 
canopied ; in the latter at the same moment, all still and 
mournful, were seen the tears and heard the half-stifled 
sighs of his broken-hearted queen, who had that day been 
repulsed, not only from a participation in the dignities of 
his crown, but from being present at the public spectacle of 
her injury ! — Driven from the society of her husband — sep- 
arated from her child — banished from the kingdom for the 
dissipation of her grief — she had mustered courage and 
determination at last to return and demand of the nation 
justice by a public investigation. She was tried ; she was 
acquitted ; and by that acquittal was entitled to the honours 
and prerogatives of queen consort ; and when, on the day 
of coronation, she presented herself to claim, not her 
queenly rights, but the privilege of a spectator, she was 
repulsed at every point, and at last driven away by a phalanx 
of soldiery ! Agitated and overwhelmed, she resorted, lean- 
ing on the arm of Lord Hood, to the House of Lords, to 
make her appeal at their bar — but met with the same recep- 
tion there ! The announcement of the " Queen of England" 
was not sufficient to gain her admittance ! Such are the 
records of the history. Of the reasons of the case there 
have been, and doubtless still are, diverse opinions. The 
people, as a body, have always sympathized with the queen. 

The provisions for the royal banquet of George IV. at 
Westminster Hall, on the day of his coronation, were in 
gross, as follows : — 

Of beef, 7,442lbs.— of veal, 7,1331bs.— of mutton, 2,474lbs. 
— 20 quarters of household lamb — 20 legs of house-lamb 
—5 saddles of lamb — 55 quarters of grass lamb — 160 lamb 
sweetbreads — 389 cow-heels — 400 calves' feet— 250lbs. of 
suet — 160 geese — 720 pullets and capons — 1,610 chickens — 
520 fowls— l,730lbs. of bacon— 550lbs. of lard— 912lbs. of 
butter— 84 hundred eggs. All these independent of the 
various articles used in the pastry and confectionary de- 
partments. 

The wines ordered for the banquet were — 100 dozen of 
Champaign— 20 dozen of Burgundy — 200 dozen of Claret — 
50 dozen of Hock— 50 dozen of Moselle — 50 dozen of Ma- 
deira — 350 dozen of Sherry and Port— 100 gallons of iced 
punch — and 100 barrels of ale and beer. 

The supply of dinner porcelain was 6,794 plates — 1,406 
soup-plates — 1,499 dessert-plates, and 288 large ale and beer 



A BILL OF FARE. 79 

pitchers. Of cutlery, 16,000 knives and forks, and 612 pairs 
of carvers. Damask table-cloths 1,250 yards; 150 dozen 
of damask napkins; and 75 dozen for waiters, knive- 
cloths, &c. 

There was a challenge made by the king's champion, 
supported by the lord high constable and the deputy earl 
marshal — they being mounted on horse, prancing in the 
midst of the hall among the tables, and before all the guests 
sitting ! 

Royal orders were issued in 1274 to the sheriffs of eight 
different counties to furnish the following provisions for the 
coronation of Edward I., viz., 440 oxen, 743 swine, 360 
sheep, and 22,560 fowls. 

In 1307, Edward II. ordered the seneschal of Gascony 
and constable of Bordeaux to furnish 1,000 pipes of good 
wine for the occasion of his coronation. 

The fetes at the coronation of Henry VIII. and Catha- 
rine of Arragon ; subsequently of Anne Boleyne ; of Mary, 
Henry's daughter, the first female that swayed the English 
sceptre; and of Elizabeth — were magnificent, as well as 
many others of the English sovereigns that might be men- 
tioned. 

In this connexion the following curious document from 
the Close Rolls of the Tower of London, though not relating 
to a coronation, may not be uninteresting : — 

King John's Christmas Dinner in 1213. 
" The king to Reginald de Cornhill. We command you 
immediately, on sight of these letters, that you send to 
Windsor twenty hogsheads of wine, costly, good, and new, 
both Gascony wines and French wine, and four hogsheads 
of best wine for our own drinking (ad os nostrum) both two 
of white wine and two of red wine, and that it be sent with- 
out delay, that it may be received before the day of the 
Nativity. And we require for our use, against that day, 
200 head of pork, and 1,000 hens, and 500lbs. of wax, and 
50lbs. of pepper, and 2lbs. of saffron, and lOOlbs. of almonds, 
good and new, and two dozen napkins, and 50 ells of deli- 
cate cloth of Rancian, and of spiceries to make salsas (prob- 
ably this word rather signifies pickles) as much as ye shall 
judge necessary, and that all these be sent thither by Satur- 
day or Sunday nearest Christmas. And ye shall send thither 
15,000 herrings and other fish, and other victual, as Ph. de 
Langeburgh shall tell you. And all these ye shall buy at 
the accustomed market, as you may deserve our thanks, 
and according to custom, you shall give in your accounts 
at the exchequer. Concerning pheasants (fascianis) or 
partridges, and other birds, which you shall seek for our 
use, you shall have them from the manor." Other precepts, 
for contributions to the same banquet, order "500 hens 



w Mantell . " 10,000 

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LOME 81 

same here i bis champion, who with that be lieth and is 
a f.ii .<: traitor — being ready in person to combat vritli him, 
and m thia quarrel will adventure his life against trim on 
what day soever he shall be appoint* 

Whereupon thechampion threw down his gauntlet. ,; 
whs done three times al the entrance, at the middle of the 
hall, and at the foot of th< : the throne. At the end 

of which the king drank the health of the champion in a 
gold cup with a cover \ lent it filled to the champion, who 
also drank the health of the king, exclaiming with a loud 
voice, "Long live his majesty, George the IV. ;" and then 
backing his way out — an awkward movement for I 
troop in that place, but a subject may not turn his back upon 
the prince — he retired from the hall, bearing away the . 
cup as ifee. 

It was not a little unexpected and startling in the cham- 
pion of George III. to find, when in the perfoi )i this 
ceremony ho threw down his gauntlet, that it was actually 

and instantly taken up! An old woman, in service there, 

and looking on, hut, as it would seem, not rightly interpret- 
ing the meaning of the affair. tW the glove thrown 
down, thinking it a pity that it should be trampled under foot 
of the horses, and lost or spoiled, sprang forward and snatch- 
ing it tip, appropriated it to herself! My the terms of the 
champion^ challenge, he was hound "to adventure his life 

in a quarrel against" this old woman! It is not recorded 

what was the result of the meeting. 

William IV. and Queen Adelaide were crowned on the 
8th of September, 1831. 



TOPOGRAPHY AND GENERAL VJfiW OF LONDON. 

When I have read of a notable town or place, without 
expectation of being able to visit it. I have wished it so 
described that I might see it; hut too often have been dis- 
appointed. I do not presume to promise to do tins of Lon- 
don ; hut assuming, that some of my countrymen may pos- 
sibly look into these pages, who will never think of crossing 
the Atlantic, I will try to give them a little sketch of the 
topographical features of that great metropolis, and of the 
relative situation of some of it> mo-: notable parts. 

It is understood, that London is situated on the River 
Thames, about sixty miles from the sea on the. east — or 
from the waters of that channel, winch separates Great 
Britain from the continent of Europe. The rivers of so 
small an island as this are not expected to compare with 
D3 



82 TOPOGRAPHY OF 

those of a continent in magnitude ; but the Thames is beau- 
tiful, and the depth of its channel, as made by a full tide, is 
sufficient to float the largest merchant ships to London. 
The sinuous course of the Thames is a great physical 
beauty, through the entire vale that is marked by its line. 
Having passed Windsor and Richmond, and much classic 
ground, it comes into London at Old Chelsea from the west, 
bending towards the north, and ontinues in this direction 
for two miles or more, till it hat passed the notable point 
of Whitehall in Westminster on the north bank; a little 
beyond which it turns towards the east, and pursues nearly 
that direction through the heart of the metropolis, till the 
bulk of the town is passed, for a distance of about four 
miles ; and then bends suddenly to the south about two 
miles, as if to salute Greenwich Hospital, after passing 
which it wheels again to the north, creating a tongue of 
land called the Isle of Dogs — which is made an island by 
means of an artificial channel, or channels, constituting the 
West India Docks. Running by Blackwall, the extreme 
point of London harbour, natural and artificial, the Thames 
finds itself at large again, and continues to play its gambols 
by seeking the greatest distance to the sea — passing in the 
meantime Woolwich and Gravesend, the former a great 
naval and military depot, and the latter a port of entry and 
embarcation. The following lines by Sir John Denham, in 
praise of this notable river, were marked by Dr. Johnson 
as one of the purest specimens of poetry ever written. If 
they did not commend themselves to all who love the 
melodies of the muses, Johnson's recommendation might 
possibly have been set down to such a feeling of his, as that 
which so characteristically betrayed itself, when, being on 
an eminence commanding great beauties of nature in Scot- 
land, he was asked which prospect before him he liked best, 
he petulantly replied — " The Road to London." An English- 
man may be pardoned if he feels that what graces London 
must be a grace. Certainly no one will deny that these 
lines are a beauty. 

" ! could I flow like thee, and make thy stream 
My great example, as it is my theme : 
Though deep, yet clear ; though gentle, yet not dull ; 
Strong without rage ; without o'erflowing, full." 

The Thames, in passing through London, divides it, not 
into so nearly equal parts as the Seine does Paris, but yet 
sufficiently so to make one feel, who is frequently traversing 
the town,"that the very heart of it is cut by the line. By far 
the greater portion of the metropolis, however, is on the 
north side of the river, as much, I should think, as three to 
one. It is understood, that unless we are speaking particu- 
larly of the City of London, we use London and the metrop- 



LONDON. 83 

olis as synonymous terms, intending by either of them to 
comprehend that vast concentration of human beings, lying 
for the most part within a circle described by a radius of 
four miles around St. Paul's. 

Maitland, in his history of London, 1739, says, in its 
growth "it has ingulfed one city, one borough, and 43 
villages." But London since then has been immensely ex- 
tended on all sides, and swallowed up other villages, and 
entirely covered large districts before vacant, such for ex- 
ample as the parishes of Mary-le-bone and St. Panchras, 
on which now stand some of the best and most substantial 
parts of the metropolis. That vast portion of London 
called the " West End" is of modern growth. The Earl 
of Burlington, whose house is in the heart of that district, 
was asked, " why he built his house in Piccadilly, so far 
out of town?" His answer was, "Because I was deter- 
mined to have no building beyond me." It is now in the 
very heart of the metropolis. Westminster and Chelsea on 
the west are swallowed up in London, or in what is com- 
monly called the metropolis ; also Stepney and Hackney on 
the east; Islington on the north; all the districts in the 
neighbourhood of the new and principal docks ; Walworth, 
Camberwell, Kennington, on the south ; and many other 
places that might be named in all directions, which used to 
be entirely separate. " The extent of the metropolis from 
east to west, or from Poplar to Knightsbridge, is seven miles 
and a half; its breadth from north to south, or from Isling- 
ton to Newington Butts, is nearly five miles ; with a zigzag 
circumference of almost thirty miles." The square miles 
within these limits are about thirty-six; and after deducting 
the superficies of the river, of streets, squares, parks, gar- 
dens, and all vacant places, it is estimated, that nearly half 
this ground is covered with houses — probably not less than 
fifteen square miles. 

The city of London proper comprehends only a small dis- 
trict (I have seen no exact measurement of it), somewhat 
less than two miles, as I should judge, from west to east, 
and less than one mile in breadth, on the north bank of the 
Thames, and nearly in the midst of the metropolis. The 
old walls of the city not being in existence, the boundaries 
are not obvious to strangers. The only relics of them I 
have ever seen are Temple Bar, a gate still standing on the 
west, stretching across one of the greatest thoroughfares of 
the metropolis, a very ugly thing to look at, and cramping 
the passage, as well as obstructing the prospect ; another is 
a very perfect gate at St. John's Square, near Smithfield ; 
and a third, a piece of the old wall, still standing near the 
tower. The latter is very interesting, and is not commonly 
known, being out of sight of the public. I was shown it 
by a friend, with whom I was dining one day. It is the 



84 TOPOGRAPHY OF 

rear wall of his garden ; and, as near as I can recollect, from 
thirty to forty feet high. It is a genuine fragment of the 
old city. But the city of London, although under a distinct 
municipal government, having valuable immunities and cer- 
tain great and independent powers of its own, is yet appa- 
rently merged and lost in the great metropolis. I have un- 
derstood, and suppose it to be a fact, that the city of Lon- 
don has 50,000 less inhabitants now than it had 100 years 
ago. The reason is obvious : the increase of business has 
turned large districts into shops and warehouses, which were 
once tenanted as dwelling-houses, and driven out many 
rookeries and nests of the poor to find a place in other and 
distant parts of the metropolis of less value. Besides, it is 
more the fashion of late years for men of business, who 
can afford it, and many who cannot afford it, to live out of 
town, or somewhere on its borders, instead of occupying 
the first and second floors over their counting-rooms and 
shops, or living anywhere pent up in the city. Hence, as 
one reason, the unceasing run of omnibuses, stagecoaches, 
and other carriages, between the city and the skirts of the 
metropolis. There are 114 parishes in the city of London; 
and as very many of the churches are deserted by this 
change in the modes of life and business, it has been gravely 
proposed by those who better understood the value of 
pounds, shillings, and pence, than the insurmountable diffi- 
culty of desecrating a church, that those churches not want- 
ed should be pulled down, and the ground appropriated to 
some profitable use. A formal correspondence lately passed 
between the municipal authorities of London and the bishop 
of the diocess on this subject ; but the bishop, who regards 
those edifices as holy, and not knowing how to desecrate 
them, discouraged their petition. 

For those who never expect to see London, let it be un- 
derstood, then, that the principal parts, of which they occa- 
sionally hear, are situated relatively, as follows : Mainly the 
business parts are on the east, and the genteel parts on the 
west. Beginning on the west, Chelsea, Brompton, and 
Knightsbridge comprehend a large district west of Westmin- 
ster and its liberties. Immediately on the north of this dis- 
trict is Hyde Park, having Kensington gardens and palace 
on the west, and the northwestern regions of the metropolis 
on the north — a part of which is Paddington, where so many 
of the business men of the city reside, having a like rela- 
tion to London as Greenwich to New- York. 

Westminster and its liberties embrace a large district, 
having Hyde Park, Knightsbridge, and Chelsea on the west ; 
the Thames on the east and south, as far as Temple Bar, 
which is on the western border of the city of London ; and 
Oxford-street, which corresponds with the north line of 
Hyde Park, on the north. Immediately on the northern bor- 



LONDON. 85 

der of St. James's Park is St. James's Palace, the royal resi- 
dence ; at the west end of this park is the new palace, for- 
merly Buckingham House, now called Pimlico Palace, oc- 
cupied by the royal family. It is one of the extravagant 
projects of George the Fourth, and will have cost the nation, 
when finished and furnished, about one million sterling. The 
front entrance and enclosure alone have cost j£70,000, or 
336,000 dollars. The Parliament Houses are on the bank 
of the Thames, less than a half mile distant and southeast 
of Pimlico and St. James's palaces. Immediately across the 
street, and by the side of the Parliament Houses, stands the 
ancient and venerable pile of Westminster Abbey. Milbank 
Penitentiary is up the river from this point about half a mile, 
near Vauxhall Bridge. Whitehall is directly on the Thames 
a little below the Parliament Houses. Opposite Whitehall 
on the same street are the treasury buildings, and Downing- 
street at right angles with Whitehall-street. Above the 
treasury buildings are the Horse Guards, so called from be- 
ing a permanent station for that corps. At the head of 
Whitehall-street is the noted point of Charing Cross ; and 
immediately above it lately opened Trafalgar Square, where 
is to be erected a splendid naval monument ; and the new 
national gallery of the fine arts, now in building, is on the 
north side of the square, and in front of St. Martin's Church, 
called St. Martin's-in-the-fields, though far from being in the 
fields at present. 

As Charing Cross is a notable place in the topography of 
London, and frequently seen in type, and not less often 
heard pronounced, it may be worthy to observe in passing — 
that Charing is supposed to have been the name of a village 
there, where Edward I. erected a cross in memory of his 
queen, Eleanor. Some suppose, and not without reason, 
that Charing is a corruption of chere regne, or reine, as there 
is no record of such a village — the version of which would 
be — The cross of the dear queen. The stranger, however, 
looks in vain for the cross, and wonders how the equestrian 
statue of Charles I. can answer to that name. The cross 
was demolished as an obnoxious relic of popery ; and the 
statue itself, which had been put in its place, was sold, after 
the king was no more, to one John River, a brasier in Hol- 
born, with orders to break it up ; but he, speculating in poli- 
tics, chose to keep it till a change of times ; and there it ' 
stands again, and to this day, the first equestrian statue that 
was ever erected in Great Britain. 

At Charing Cross begins the Strand, one of the greatest 
thoroughfares leading to the city, and extending to Temple 
Bar under that name, whence it takes successively the 
names of Fleet-street, Ludgate Hill, and Cheapside, to the 
bank and Royal Exchange. West of Charing Cross lies 
Pall Mall, a spacious and fine street, leading to the Palace 

8 



86 TOPOGRAPHY OF LONDON. 

of St. James, on which, besides several magnificent club- 
houses and some unostentatious galleries for the exhibition 
of specimens of the fine arts, is the Italian Opera House, or 
King's Theatre. 

St. James's Palace is at the foot of the street of the same 
name, and about midway of the northern border of St. 
James's Park. It is a mean building to look upon — but 
princely within. 

" The West End" of London is an indefinite region, and, 
as I need not say, indicates the atmosphere of the court. 
It is commonly reckoned to begin at Temple Bar. Fifty 
years ago I suppose it did ; but I think it has been gradually 
travelling westward. Still, however, the principal and most 
popular theatres, Drury Lane, Covent Garden, and the Adel- 
phi, are supposed to be comprehended in these limits. For 
the most part, at present, there is not much of the spirit of 
West End to be found on the east of Regent-street, except 
by the way of Pall Mall, Charing Cross, and Whitehall, on 
the route to Westminster Hall. But all who live between 
Regent-street and Hyde Park, and between St. James's 
Park on the south and Regent's Park on the north, doubt- 
less imagine that they are breathing the purest air of 
nobility. 

Regent's-street is a modern cut through London, from 
Carlton House, that was — now Duke of York's monument — 
to Oxford-street, on a line towards Regent's Park ; and it is 
one of the finest streets of London, including the two cir- 
cuses and the quadrant. Langham-street and Portland Place, 
which make the continuation of Regent's-street towards 
the park, exhibit their own quiet grandeur, and seem a sort 
of introduction to the splendid Park-crescent and Park- 
square, and to the still more magnificent lines and terraces, 
which encircle Regent's Park nearly to its northern ex- 
tremity — where are to be found, in a most enchanting re- 
treat, the Zoological Gardens. The Colosseum is on the 
east line of Regent's Park — a mountain of a building — 
where, besides many other things worth seeing, is exhibited 
a Panorama of London, the original sketches of which 
were taken minutely from the top of St. Paul's, in 1821, by 
Mr. Horner, while the cross was taken down and being re- 
placed. The buildings on the borders of all the parks of 
London are generally in a style of great magnificence. 

Regent's Park is quite on the northern border of the me- 
tropolis, and is a new creation — having been projected and 
built since 1814. It is the largest of the parks, having four 
hundred and fifty acres, which is fifty-five in excess of Hyde 
Park. It is in form circular, supported on the south, east, 
and west borders, by ranges of magnificent houses and ter- 
races, many of which are fit for palaces, but opening on the 
north to a pure country scene, with a range of hills,~em~ 



THE BRIDGES ON THE THAMES. 87 

bracing Hampstead, which is from four hundred to five hun- 
dred feet above the level of the Thames. 

This park is encircled by one of the finest drives in the 
vicinity of London, and may also be penetrated to a car- 
riage-road circus of about half a mile in circumference in 
the heart of it. The gardens of this park are not yet opened 
to the public, on account of the tenderness of the shrubbery. 
With all its attractions it has not withdrawn the public in 
any perceptible degree from Hyde Park; although it is 
probably destined to become a favourite resort. There is 
a most enchanting water scene in Regent's Park, beyond 
any thing that has been created about the metropolis. 
" The parks are the lungs of London." 

Having taken a glance of the court end of London, we 
will proceed by way of the river to the denser smoke and 
greater bustle of its business and commercial parts. Be- 
ginning at Battersea Bridge and Chelsea old church, some 
four or five miles up the river from St. Paul's, we descend 
on the tide, passing under Vauxhall Bridge, a light cast-iron 
structure, of nine arches, each 78 feet in span and 29 in the 
height of the arch, making a length of bridge, including the 
piers, of 860 feet; completed in 1816; cost £150,000 
(720,000 dollars). This bridge is about three quarters of a 
mile above Westminster Abbey. After passing Vauxhall 
Bridge, immediately on the left is Milbank Penitentiary, en- 
closing 18 acres within its walls ; cost somewhat less than 
j£500,000 ; is capable of accommodating 1,000 convicts, 500 
of each sex ; established in 1820, and is an experiment. 
Before arriving at Westminster Bridge, we leave Lambeth 
Palace on the right, the town residence of the Archbishop 
of Canterbury, who is the chief hierarch of England ; that 
is, in settling the precedency between him and the Arch- 
bishop of York, it was determined that the latter should 
be styled " Primate of England," and the former " Primate 
of all England." 

Westminster Bridge is thrown across the Thames at the 
Parliament House and Abbey, is built of stone on 15 arches, 
in length 1,223 feet; was begun 1739 and completed 1750 ; 
cost £389,000 ($1,867,200). It is a grand structure. 

From Westminster to Waterloo Bridge by the river is 
about half a mile, passing Whitehall, Hungerford market, 
and the Adelphi buildings on the left ; and Lambeth water- 
works and the shot-tower on the right. These are the most 
remarkable objects immediately on the banks of the river. 
The river also turns from a northerly course to the east in 
this distance. Waterloo Bridge, except the New London, I 
should rank as the grandest on the Thames; is built of 
granite ; has nine arches ; in length is 1,242 feet ; was com- 
menced in 1811, and opened June 18th, 1817, the anniver- 



88 THE BRIDGES ON THE THAMES. 

sary of the battle of Waterloo, in the presence of the Princfe 
Regent and the Duke of Wellington. 

In another half mile from Waterloo to Blackfriars' Bridge, 
we pass the quadrangle of buildings called Somerset House, 
once a palace, now appropriated as public offices, connected 
with the government, &c. The Temple Gardens and Inns 
of Court also present themselves on the same bank, and are 
the first buildings within the city of London going down. 
Blackfriars' Bridge is about a quarter of a mile east of the 
present west boundary of the city ; is stone ; was built 
between 1760 and 1768, at an expense of .£152,840, or 
$733,632. It is 995 feet long, and has nine arches. It is 
now undergoing very considerable repairs. 

Southwark Bridge is a magnificent work of cast iron of 
three arches, built between 1814 and 1819. The middle 
arch is 240 feet in span, and the side arches each 210. 
The distance between the abutments is 708 feet. Many 
single castings weigh 10 tons each ; and the whole weight 
of iron exceeds 5,308 tons. This bridge is directly oppo- 
site Guildhall, the centre of the city; cost £800,000, or 
3,840,000 dollars. 

The new London Bridge is the best on the Thames, and 
altogether the most magnificent. It was opened by the 
king with great pomp and ceremony in August, 1831, hav- 
ing been six years in building. It is composed of granite 
from Scotland, and rests upon five arches. The span of 
the centre arch is 152 feet, rise 32 ; span of the two arches 
next the centre 140 feet, rise 30 ; span of the extreme arches 
130 feet, rise 25 ; length of bridge including the abutments 
950 feet. This bridge stands at the foot of the London 
Monument, erected to commemorate the great fire of 1666, 
and nearly opposite the Royal Exchange, Bank of England, 
and Mansion House ; cost £l, 500,000. It is the separation 
between river and sea navigation, as no vessel of standing 
masts can go above it. Yet it is but a little below the cen- 
tre of the metropolis, the lower parts of the river being 
left open for a harbour, which is constantly crowded with a 
forest of masts. 

Of the six bridges we have noticed, those of Westmin- 
ster, Blackfriars, and London, are not only on the lines of 
the greatest thoroughfares, but they are free of toll ; and 
therefore naturally draw the greatest current of passengers. 
The average daily crossing of foot-passengers at Westmin- 
ster and Blackfriars' Bridges was ascertained about 20 years 
ago to be 32,000 for the former and 48,000 for the latter, 
taking six weeks of summer and six of winter for the count- 
ing. In July, 1811, there passed over Blackfriars' Bridge in 
one day, 61,069 foot-passengers; 533 wagons; 1,502 carts 
and drays ; 999 coaches ; 500 gigs and taxed carts ; and 
822 horses. On the same day there crossed over London 



CHURCHES. 89 

Bridge 89,640 foot-passengers; 1,240 coaches; 485 gigs 
and taxed carts ; 769 wagons ; 2,924 carts and drays ; and 
764 horses. It has been stated, though somewhat loosely 
perhaps, that 125,000 persons in all daily pass over Lon- 
don Bridge at present. 

The bridges over the Thames at London are doubtless 
among the most magnificent structures of the kind in the 
world. 

In passing through the metropolis on the river above Lon- 
don Bridge, we find the shores lined with coal-barges, many 
deep, for a great portion of the way ; and on the middle of 
the river, in every direction, are darting and playing the 
light, sharp-built, and rapid wherries of the watermen, with 
an occasional heavy-loaded barge floating on the tide. 
Small steamers are also running up and down the river. 
Below London Bridge are all the appearances, symptoms, 
and din of foreign commerce. There one plunges into the 
midst of shipping, and can hardly make way through it for 
miles, besides the liability in a wherry of being run down 
by the steamers that are dashing up and down the river, 
and occupying the narrow channel left open for a common 
highway. 

The steeples and towers of London are less numerous 
than might be supposed. They cluster somewhat in the 
city indeed, but in other portions of the metropolis they are 
rarely seen. I have never been in a situation to count 
them, when the atmosphere was sufficiently clear to allow 
me to do it, nor have I ever seen the number of them pub- 
lished. 

The highest estimate of churches and chapels of all 
denominations in the metropolis, which I have seen, is 
459. The dissenting chapels are generally plain buildings, 
scarcely any of which have a tower or steeple. Not being 
permitted to ring a bell, they have no occasion for a place 
to put it in. Many of them, indeed, that were built in times 
of great religious intolerance, were purposely placed out of 
sight to escape unpleasant visitation from public authorities 
and the mob. In these days they are more bold, and show 
their fronts on the streets ; but they are so modest, that a 
foreigner, not knowing the features by which they are dis- 
tinguished, might pass by scores of them without observing 
their character. 

The steeples of London are not particularly attractive. 
St. Bride's, Fleet-street, is one of Sir Christopher Wren's 
best. It was originally two hundred and thirty-four feet 
high ; but was lowered a little after having been injured by 
lightning. Bow Church steeple, Cheapside, is more admired 
than that of St. Bride's. It is over two hundred feet high. 
The lantern of St. Dunstan's (new), Fleet-street, is satisfac- 
8* 



90 :-:t. Paul':-;. 

tory of its kind. St dement Danes and St. Mary's, in the 

■.A. are fine mo- \n's-m-the-Fiek-. i 

bees .one. will be looked at. AH Souls, Lang- 

ham 1 rkableforil t conical form, coming 

to a point without a vane. St. Luke's, Chelsea, as a Gothic 
edifice, must be a P ras, in the North of 

airily attractive 

al Church, 

Reg are, built for Mr. taring, from which he was 

B. In 

•-on to these some twenty or more of an ordinary class 

of towers and steeples are rver the metropolis, 

looking at, if one had nothing else to do. 

Westminstei Abb | to be treated of by H 

and cannot be named hot with great r< a piece of 

ancient and magnificent r 

J; u froi 
the eye can overlook the town, there is St. Panics, a moun- 
tain'- very thing around, 
which in itself might owing with its 
•; mighty world beneath it, and seeming, with 
great -on, day after 

if console 
1 the nun.' od of 

And yet, 
I this building, and imposing as 
i and thought of by itself, standing 
in th< it might be conve- 

nient! within the 

and tmdei of 8t P< Rome. 

Tl I rf : all con- 

for the : n 50 ; and 

many • :i below t: oi Lon- 

of the Ths 

r j e circle of mils on the norl four miles 

from St. Paul's, is not far short of 410 feet high. Jack 

Castle, H the highest point, is '< '.'■'. 

6 the Thames. T [Is, in 

x to ten n probably about 500 

or 550 feet above the 1 I offer 

■ tnre, 

1 1 1 great - on, or principal avenues, 

otng tl f Bank of England and the R 
I - ■ central position, Vi point, 

Chea] throat, through winch every thing going 

and west by th< ue of bl 

than half a mile long. There is probably no other avenue 

in the city through wfueh an equal numb' .< the 

e of a day. At the end of Cheapsjde the current 



GREAT THOROUGHFARES. 91 

divides into two principal streets, one leading in the line of 
Ludgate Hill, Fleet-street, and Strand, towards Charing 
Cross and Piccadilly; the other passes through Newgate- 
street and Holborn. to Oxford-street. The great thorough- 
fare from the hank to the north is the City-road, branching 
at the Angel Inn into the New-road towards Paddington, on 
the loft: and on the right, through Islington to Birmingham, 
York, &c. On the east from the bank, the two great 
thoroughfares into the country are by Rishopsgate-street 
and Shoreditch, through Kingsland and Hackney; and by 
Whitechapel and Mile-end-road; both towards Cambridge 
and Essex. There is another great thoroughfare, the Com- 
mercial-road, branching off at Whitechapel, and leading to 
the West and East India Doeks. as well as to other places 
on the river. The first five bridges over the Thames, in- 
cluding Westminster, lead directly from the northern re- 
gions oi the metropolis to two central points, on the south 
side, viz., the Elephant and Castle and Bricklayers 1 Arms, 
both about a mile from the river, where every thing passing 
that way between London and the country meet. In eross- 
ing the river, the three bridges that are "free oi toll. West- 
minster, Blackfriars, and London, draw the great currents, 
which are in motion in these directions. 

These are some oi the principal avenues of the metrop- 
olis, through which immense tides oi population are con- 
stantly rolling on foot and m vehicles oi all descriptions. 
They have the same relation and discharge the same otliees 
to the innumerable other channels oi circulation, as the 
principal arteries to the smaller ones and to the \ ems of the 
human body. 1 had almost forgotten to mention, that the 
Thames itself is a grand thoroughfare oi its own kind, 
bearing on its tides oi ebb and tlood more than could con- 
veniently be counted. 

The Tower o( London is at the extreme and lower point 
oi the city on the river. Immediately beyond it are St. 
Catharine's Peeks, next the London Uoeks. then the New 
Dock. These doeks are large artificial basins, inland from 
the river, crowded with shipping from all parts oi the world. 
The two great West India Uoeks. one for lading and the 
Other for unlading, are some two or three miles below. 
The Bast India Uoeks are still beyond, at Ulaekwall ; the 

latter bemg about 10 miles from London Bridge by the chan- 
nel of the river, and from three to four by laud. There are 
also several spacious and important doeks on the opposite 
side of the river. The shipping that lies m the river is 
mostly engaged in coasting ami the channel trade; that 
engaged in foreign commerce more generally lades and 
Unlades in the doeks. 

The bustle of the eity and the heavy drudgery o( those 
parts of the metropolis connected with the shipping, present 



92 SOME THINGS IN LONDON. 

a very different scene from the holyday aspects of the court 
end of the town, from day to day, the year out and in. In 
the former is toil ; in the latter is pleasure, where, for about 
half the year, from midwinter to midsummer, the most 
splendid equipages roll along in never-ending currents in 
the latter part of the day. The other half of the year the 
west end is deserted, while the city and the eastern parts 
of the metropolis present the same busy scene from the 
beginning to the end of the year. 

A dead silence reigns throughout the west end in the 
early hours of morning, even when the town is most 
crowded. The fashionable world, who dissipate during the 
night, do not get in motion again before the public till the 
latter part of the day. They go to bed about the crowing 
of the cock. 



SOME THINGS IN LONDON. 

The Coffee and Dining rooms — The Swedenborgians— London Charity- 
Schools and their Singing in Churches — A Scene at St. Andrew's — 
The bad system of Hackney Coaches, &c. — Sin in the Law. 

To go back a little, the first morning I awoke in London, 
and went below to order breakfast, I found myself in a room 
divided into stalls some six feet deep from the walls and 
four broad, with a narrow board for a table as a fixture in 
each, with wooden benches for the length thereof, and par- 
titions rising as high as one's head while sitting, and above 
these corresponding scarlet stuff-curtains run on a brass 
wire, supported at the extremities by small brass posts 
about an inch in diameter — the whole apparatus constitu- 
ting a line of recesses entirely round the room, into which 
any one, two, three, or four persons may retreat, and par- 
take of a breakfast, dinner, tea, or supper, without any con- 
nexion with other persons in the apartment. This descrip- 
tion, with little variation, may answer for most of the cof- 
fee and dining rooms of London, kept for the ins and outs of 
transient persons, who have occasion to visit them for the 
purpose of refreshment. Nobody is supposed to know his 
neighbour in an adjoining stall, or to have any thing to do 
with him. There may be two, fifty, or a hundred at the 
tables at the same time, all strangers to each other — some 
going out, while others are coming in — some in the middle, 
while others are in any supposable stage of their repast ; 
servants being always ready to serve breakfast at any hour 
of the morning at the shortest notice ; dinner at any hour, 
or between certain specific hours of the afternoon, such as 
maybe notified; and tea and supper, as maybe ordered ; 



AN UNFAIR CUSTOM. 93 

the bills of fare for the most part, especially at coffee and 
dining rooms not connected with hotels, having the price of 
each item of the provisions for the time marked, so that 
any one may know the amount of his own bill while he is 
ordering it. There is no ceremony in these rooms. People 
come in and go out at their own convenience ; sit and eat 
with their hats on or off; often, perhaps, in the majority of 
instances, with hats on. 

In the better houses, indeed, stalls are wanting, and tables 
are set for individuals, or small parties, in a common room, 
where private apartments are not preferred. If travellers, 
lodging at inns and hotels, choose to order separate rooms 
for their meals and for sitting, they expect, as is reasonable, 
to pay for them. The common room is often called the 
commercial room, especially in country towns. At hotels 
a common table is sometimes set, where single individuals, 
not otherwise connected with parties, make a party for the 
time by consent, though strangers to each other. It is not 
pleasant, however, as one cannot know what company he 
will fall into. 

I remember I was once asked by the^head waiter in one 
of the principal hotels at Glasgow on the Sabbath, if I would 
dine at the common table. Supposing it would be less 
trouble for the servants, as indeed it would, I said yes. I 
found myself at table with some half dozen gentlemen of 
good manners, but more disposed to sit and drink wine after 
dinner than to go to church. For myself I asked to be ex- 
cused, as soon as I could find a fit place. On leaving next 
morning I discovered in my bill an enormous item for wine 
the previous evening. I remonstrated ; but the waiter said, 
it was customary to divide the bill for wine drank at a com- 
mon table equally among those who had sat there. I said, 
" it was matter of conscience with me : I would not be sup- 
posed to be connected with company who drank so much 
wine on Sundays, or any other day. I had neither ordered 
nor drank it, and was no more concerned in it than a man in 
the moon. Why did you put me there !" The waiter felt 
the force of my reasoning, as a stranger to the custom, but 
no doubt had law on his side if I had been disposed to car- 
ry the matter to an extremity. A magistrate would un- 
doubtedly have decided that he could not interfere in such 
a case, although he might have been sorry for my ignorance. 
The waiter said, " that whatever abatement he should make 
in my bill, as rendered, would be so much loss to himself, 
as a servant in the house, he being responsible for it, which 
would be a hard case." I therefore paid the bill. 

I suppose a man might be an habitual visiter of the same 
coffee and dining rooms in London for months and years, 
and no one, not even the waiter, would be able to know his 
name, place of abode, or his business, if he were disposed 



94 CHURCH OF MR. IRVING. 

to conceal himself. Unless he were impertinent, or had 
learned by accident, he would oi' course he ignorant. Nei- 
ther is there in Great Britain any apparent prying into a 
guest's history, or after his name, at inns and taverns. The 
most scrupulous delicacy is observed in this particular. I 
know not why it should happen m the United States, the 
moment a traveller arrives at an inn, before he can be as- 
signed to his rooms, that the bar album is uniformly produ- 
ced, and a pen put into his hand to record his name and res- 
idence ! Certainly it is not a police regulation. 

The following piece of pleasantry, if all of whom this de- 
mand is made were gifted with as ready wit, might serve as 
a pattern, and perchance answer a good purpose. It is an 
extract from a tavern album in the north of England, said to 
have been inserted at request by the second person named 
therein : — 

" Two poets, one Wordsworth, 
The other Sam Rogers, 
Came here to-day, 
They're both queer codgers." 

My first day in London was the Sabbath. I had my 
reasons for asking the waiter to direct my way to the Rev. 
Edward Irving's Church. This gentleman was not so no- 
torious then, as sirrce, for certain remarkable doings ; at 
least. 1 was not at the moment aware how far he had ad- 
vanced in that way. He had indeed acquired a sufficient 
notoriety before the world to induce me to wish to hear 
him. The waiter sent me to a small street, running out of 
Hatton Garden, where Mr. Irving began his career in Lon- 
don, but which, however, he had long before abandoned for 
the new and fine church, which had been built for him in 
Regent's Square, in a distant quarter of the town. I was 
not undeceived, till I had taken my seat in the chapel, to 
which I had been directed, and the service had commenced. 
Decency forbade my going out. although I was disappointed. 
It proved to be a Swedenborgian or New Jerusalem con- 
gregation, whose doctrine is not exactly the transcendent- 
alism of Germany ; etymologieally it is not perhaps inaptly 
described, as being somewhat hyper-super-transcendental. 
It is a religion demanding more philosophy in order to be 
inducted into its mysteries, than ordinary minds can at- 
tain to. 

Having passed a large church on my left in the ascent of 
Holborn Hill, in front of Hatton Garden, and doomed as a 
stranger for that day to take all things at hazard, it being 
one of the nearest, I turned my feet that way at the ringing 
of the bells in the afternoon. ' The congregation was small 
for so large a church. I have since had occasion to observe, 
that in London churches and chapels of all denominations 



CHARITY-SCHOOLS. 95 

are usually left nearly vacant in the afternoon, it being the 
opportunity assigned to servants and the lower orders. 

I was particularly struck with the appearance of some 
hundreds of boys and girls in the front galleries, planted as 
near the organ as they could be placed, plainly but neatly 
dressed ; the girls being distinguished by caps, capes, and 
aprons of pure white ; and the boys by garments of their 
own kind of equal uniformity. These children were trained 
to accompany the organ, and were in fact the choir for the 
occasion. These cherub voices, however, are not ordinarily 
celestial. But at the Foundling Hospital, Brunswick Square, 
and Christ Church, Newgate-street, they are drilled inces- 
santly. At the Foundling they are assisted by a corps of 
professional performers ; at Christ's Church, the singing 
boys and girls are selected from the very large schools be- 
longing to the parish ; and being accompanied by a powerful 
organ, are themselves a most powerful, and sometimes 
overwhelming choir of the kind. There is a perfect pecu- 
liarity in the music which they make : an immense and 
overpowering volume of infant voices melted into one, re- 
minds us most impressively of the Scripture declaration — 
" Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou per- 
fected praise." The stranger in London, who can appreci- 
ate such performances, and whose feelings are susceptible 
of their appropriate and elevating influence, ought not to 
deny himself the pleasure of enjoying them ; above all, if 
he happens to be in the British metropolis at the time of the 
great assemblage of the charity-school children at St. Paul's 
in June, when ten or twelve thousand voices of these sweet 
cherubs mingle together under that vast and lofty dome, 
supported and borne on high by the peals of the loud organ, 
drowning all discordancy, if any there be, as if heaven 
were opened, and the united anthems of its innumerable 
hosts had burst upon this nether world — let him not fail to 
be there. 

I lingered in the church of St. Andrew — for that is its 
name — after the congregation had retired, and my attention 
was attracted to a bustle about the altar, which I now dis- 
covered to be the assembling of a number of poor people 
for the baptizing of their children. Many were going to 
and fro, and the church was quite a scene of confusion, 
loud talking, and a want of reverential demeanour being ob- 
servable, as if it were in the street. This state of things 
continued during the ceremonies of baptism, no endeavours 
being made to repress these disorders. The administrator 
seemed not to observe them ; or if so, not to regard them as 
out of character. I had never seen baptism performed be- 
fore, but in the midst of the most solemn stillness and at- 
tention ; and generally in my own country, in the presence 
of a full congregation. But here it seemed like a matter 



96 THE BAD SYSTEM OF 

of business, as if it were in a market-place, and all turned 
off as fast as possible. I must confess it was to me a novel, 
and by no means an edifying sight. But what added to the 
general confusion, and turned it into a complete riot, was 
the breaking out of an angry and boisterous dispute in the 
middle of the church, which appeared to me to be carried 
on between a beadle (for he wore the church livery, and 
held in his hand the symbol of his office), and the father of 
a child, which the father assumed had been beaten by the 
church officer : " You did strike him." — " I didn't." — " I say 
you did." — " I say I didn't." And this affirmation and denial 
were maintained in the most spirited style, and at the top 
of the lungs of the two parties, for a time, which, in such a 
place and in such circumstances, seemed very long, till 
finally they rushed in great fury, and with a continued 
clamour, past 4he altar to the vestry, shutting to the door, to 
settle the matter, as I supposed, before some higher author- 
ity, where the excited father seemed to be resolved to pre- 
fer his complaint. I speak simply of the facts, as they im- 
pressed me at the time. 

On Monday, having breakfasted, I went into the street, 
and took a cab (cabriolet), a one-horse and two-wheel 
chaise, or gig, or calash, and ordered the man to drive me 
to the Exchange, for which he had the conscience to take 
one shilling and sixpence. He was entitled to eightpence. 
The system of the licensed public vehicles of London is 
worthy of a passing notice. They are a necessary conve- 
nience, and in that sense a necessary evil ; for that they are 
an evil, in being most admirably contrived to injure the good 
temper of all who have to do with them, I think will not be 
contested. They are far more profitable to the government, 
than pleasant to those who have occasion to use them, the 
licenses of which for the metropolis bring in the no trifling 
annual revenue of .£52,000 ; or about $249,600. Besides 
supporting the wear and tear of the vehicles and horses, 
paying the drivers, and rendering a satisfactory profit to the 
owners of these establishments, the aggregate of the fares 
paid by the public for the use of these run-about town con- 
veyances, must of course produce this revenue. It were 
curious to know the whole account : but I have not the re- 
quisite data. 

The first evil to the public is, that the vehicles themselves 
are the most wretched and offensive imaginable, leaving out 
of view the omnibuses, the latter of which, indeed, are gen- 
erally excellent, and of the kind as convenient and pleasant 
as could be. Of course, those who ride in omnibuses must 
expect to meet with omnibus company — all sorts. The 
other classes are almost exclusively hackney-coaches and 
cabriolets, vulgarly called cabs. The former, without ex- 
ception, I believe, are the worn-out and cast-by carriages 



HACKNEY-COACHES. 97 

of gentlemen, some of which, indeed, when first brought 
upon the stands, are decent to look at ; and but for the dis- 
gust excited by imagining what creatures may possibly have 
been in them last, they would be decent to use. Generally, 
however, they have been in this particular service apparently 
for generations, and are kept running just so long as they 
do not fall down from the rottenness of age ; and as much 
longer, as the addition of some other old wheel, or of any 
extra parts that have failed, drawn out from a hopeless 
wreck, can support them. The cabs cannot last long, 
because they are forced into a severer service, and are the 
Jehu-drivers of the town. They are a sort of vehicle con- 
structed originally for this purpose, with low and strong 
wheels, a calash top, and an outside seat on the right for the 
driver, being licensed to carry two passengers within. Their 
rapid driving, however, soon defaces and cripples them, as 
they are liable to come in frequent contact with other street 
furniture, in consequence of the fury with which they are 
driven. The hackneys are slow, snail-like creepers, on 
account of the poor, pitiable, and often blind horses, by 
which they are drawn. A horse that is completely done 
for every other imaginable use, is brought to Smithfield, or 
to some other horse-market, and sold for hackney-coach 
service. A large portion of the cabs are drawn by the same 
miserable brutes, and most cruelly forced into the extra- 
ordinary momentum, under which they rush through the 
streets, by the goad and the whip. I have often got into a 
cab with a limited time to arrive at a certain place, requiring 
speed, having been assured by the driver that his horse was 
fleet, but every application of the whip failing to fulfil the 
promise, I have been obliged to discharge him at the next 
stand, and after obtaining a like solemn assurance from 
another of the class, have found myself worse off than 
before. 

I once employed a hackney-coach to take myself and some 
friends from Fleet-street, by the nearest route, to the Zoo- 
logical Gardens. We went round Regent's Park, called at 
the Colosseum, and returned by Regent-street, Pall Mall, and 
the Strand. The coachman had his prerogative by law to 
charge by the hour or by the distance ; he chose the latter, 
and brought in a bill of twelve shillings. Knowing well that 
the demand was exorbitant, I told him, if he took one six- 
pence more than what was due to him, I would treat him 
with the utmost rigour of the law. He took eight shillings. 

In London and the world over, for this and other matters 
of the kind, wherever imposition can be practised, the cheap- 
est and most comfortable way is to make up one's mind 
always to pay a tax of 25 per cent, over and above all law- 
ful demands, for the sake of preserving an unruffled temper. 
The watermen on the Thames are no less vicious, and in 
E 9 



9S national revenue. 

mail} - - are even more accomplished in their tricks 
at imposition, as it is more easy for them to evade the laws 
enacted to control them. Scarcely a daily paper issues 
from the press, without a report of offences oi these two 
classes, and yet not a thousandth part oi them is brought, 
under the cognizance of law. 

The truth is. the laws themselves are in a great measure 
iisible for these offences. The imposts on licenses are 
so grievously ruinous, that decent men will not engage in 
the business; and they can no more afford to be honest, 
than to furnish good carriages and good horses. A cab 
with one horse is r - ur for a license. 

and in addition to this £% for every month, all in advance, 
or in all 139 dollars a year: and coaches with two horses, 
is 1 suppose, in proportion. This tax is paid by the owner 
of the vehicle. But the driver is not commonly the owner. 
He engages to pay his master so much per day. whether he 
finds employment or not : and if he is not employed, he is 
ruined. His temptation to exorbitancy, therefore, is great. 
The same is the case with watermen on the river. Both 
classes are poor, ignorant, and depraved. To increase the 
.ue the authorities multiply licenses; and this in turn 
tes the evil. 

Livery stables are of another class, and horses and car- 
riages hired from them are always good. But if for a ride 
of pleasure, and to take a little airing in the country, a man 
chooses to expend a guinea, half of it. more or less, is a tax 
to government : and this is the reason why pleasures of this 
kind are so dear. All pleasures and luxuries in England are 
taxed most enormously to answer the necessities of govern- 
ment. Forty-six millions sterling, or 220,800,000 dollars, 
must be raised annually, from one source and another, to 
pay the nueresi of the national debt, to support the Army 
and Navy, to defray expenses of the civil list, &c. &c. 



LONDON DINING-HOURS. 99 



CRIME AND POLICE OF LONDON. 

London dining-hours — A night encounter of a suspicious personage on 
Waterloo Bridge — Another less grave — Crime in London — London 
Police — Thames Tunnel. 

Among the gravest, most Christian people of London, the 
common time specified in cards of invitation to dinner is 
five o'clock. If there be a party, and punctuality be request- 
ed, the company may possibly be prepared to sit down at 
half past five ; but an hour's grace is a more general allow- 
ance. It is making extraordinary despatch, if the hostess 
feels at liberty to retire with the ladies to the drawing-room 
in two hours after sitting down. It would be crowding busi- 
ness quite hard, if the gentlemen should be prepared at the 
end of another hour to obey the summons from the drawing- 
room to tea and coffee, and to mingle again in the society 
of the ladies. And if a guest have any reasons of con- 
science or convenience for getting home before morning, he 
may think himself well off if he can find a place to say 
" good night" by twelve o'clock, without seeming to break 
in by violence on the social enjoyments of the company to 
which he has the honour to be admitted. Not unlikely he 
will be obliged to whisper his apology to whom it is due, 
and slip away unperceived. For the most fashionable din- 
ners, in the highest circles, company does not arrive till nine, 
ten, and eleven o'clock ; and all the ceremonies of the oc- 
casion are expeditiously done, if they get home to sleep by 
the time when the sun rises on the world to light and to 
bless it. The stillest portion of the twenty-four hours at 
the west end is in the morning, when the world of fashion 
and of feasting have got snugly fixed in their nests, and when 
in the city the shops are opening, and the business parts of 
the population are moving to their various tasks. 

His majesty, the King of Great Britain, and the Queen, 
are more exemplary. While I was being shown the Pavil- 
ion, which is the royal residence at Brighton, I asked my 
attendant, one of the chief of the household, as we were in 
the dining-room, " How many servants commonly wait here 
at dinner V — "About three times the number of guests. 
First is the range of pages nearest the table ; next, the foot- 
men ; and along by the sideboards is another set of waiters ; 
each of these three classes of a nearly equal number." — 
"And what are the common hours of eating V — "Their 
majesties breakfast at nine, lunch at two, and dine at seven 
in the evening." I did not make a minute of these answers, 
E 2 



100 A MIDNIGHT SCENE IN LONDON. 

and depend upon my memory ; but I believe they are right. 
" And how long do they sit at dinner V — " Her majesty and 
the ladies generally retire soon after eight o'clock ; and the 
king with his company soon afterward joins the queen, and 
coffee is ordinarily served by nine o'clock, all in the course 
of two hours. After which, besides that the queen's band 
is in attendance during dinner, the evening is principally de- 
voted to music, in the music saloon where you saw the or- 
gan," &c. I understood that the royal family generally dis- 
persed before midnight. This was represented to me as the 
ordinary routine of the day, by which it appeared that the 
king and queen were regular in their habits, and not very 
late in retiring at night or in rising in the morning. 

It was on a day of December, 1831, when I had lodgings 
in the Adelphi, Strand, that I accepted an invitation to dine 
with a small party in Stamford-street, on the opposite side 
of the river. Not being very fond of late hours, I succeed- 
ed in getting away, though I was the first to leave, a little 
before twelve o'clock. The nearest and most direct road to 
my lodgings was across Waterloo Bridge, the whole distance 
being a little more than half a mile. If any one is bound to 
make an apology for using his legs to get home from a party 
at such an hour, it may perhaps partly suffice to observe, 
that coaches do not stand just in that neighbourhood. At 
any rate, being able-bodied, and possessed of tolerable agil- 
ity, I bolted into the street without sense of impropriety or 
fear of peril, and making the best of my way, soon found 
myself past the turnstile at the south end of the bridge. 
Even in the daytime, as is well known to Londoners, this 
bridge is little frequented ; in the evening less ; at the still 
and solemn hour of midnight, and near the shortest days of 
winter, scarcely at all. The stars were concealed by smoke 
and clouds ; the lamps of that vast metropolis, beaming 
faintly up towards heaven, made the darkness visible ; on 
the left, all along the shore towards Whitehall, the full glare 
of an occasional lamp down upon the glassy bosom of the 
Thames, threw up its sheet of scattered rays ; the arched 
and regular lines of light across Westminster Bridge pre- 
sented a beautiful vision ; and down the river the lamps of 
Blackfriars' and Southwark bridges rivalled each other to 
give enchantment to the scene, in the midst of the twink- 
lings which darted from the confused mele of lights from 
either shore. But the prettiest of all was the scene directly 
before me, created by the perspective of the two ranges of 
lamps on the sides of Waterloo Bridge, drawing nearer to- 
gether as the vista extended and approached the Strand. 
This bridge is a dead level. I could see distinctly from one 
gate to the other, and not a human being was upon it. I 
passed the turnstile on the right, after giving the keeper his 
penny, and hearing the tick of the clockwork, which forces 



A SURPRISE. 101 

him to be honest. This contrivance is admirable, as it ena- 
bles an overseer at the end of a week, by his key, to open 
a secret chamber of machinery, and count the number of 
pennies which the keeper has received during that period — 
an ingenious check on his dishonest propensity, but some- 
what of a libel on the character of the lower orders, as must 
be confessed. 

As was natural, I kept the side to which I was thus intro- 
duced, and walked on at peace with myself, and I hope with 
Heaven, admiring the stillness with which I was immedi- 
ately surrounded at that dead hour of night, in the midst of 
such a world of human beings. The distant rumbling of 
carnages, however, along the pavements of the streets, and 
that peculiar hum which accompanies it, when heard at a 
little distance, and occasioned by the street-talk and night- 
rioting of so great a city, admonished me that the world 
were not all asleep. But the twinkling lamps, everywhere 
to be seen, like the stars in an open sky, and the regular ap- 
proaching lines immediately before me, were most attractive 
of all. 

It may be observed, that over each end of the piers of this 
bridge, as of most of the others, the jutting out of the balus- 
trade forms a recess, in which are seats for passengers to 
stop and rest, if they please ; or to loiter for any purpose that 
may best suit themselves ; and the balusters are sufficiently 
high to conceal persons seated there from those who are 
coming and going, till the moving passengers get directly 
opposite the recess, in which those at rest happen to have 
their place. Without suspecting, or imagining, that any 
person could find reason for being lodged in one of these 
recesses at such a time of night, I carelessly walked along, 
musing upon the strange vision that surrounded me, and was 
thoroughly absorbed in my own thoughts. As I came near 
the middle of the bridge, opposite one of the recesses above 
described, a man suddenly leaped out, planted himself be- 
fore me, and in a plaintive, beseeching tone, implored my 
arm to help him home, as he was in great distress. Thoughts 
at such a moment are quick. That he should have kept 
himself invisible till that moment — that he could spring out 
from his ambush with an agility, indicating full vigour and 
the greatest sprightliness of body — and the evident affecta- 
tion of his whole manner and voice, aping distress, without 
being able to demonstrate it — (for nature in such a matter 
never deceives) all told the whole story, as quick as one 
thought can succeed another under such quickening occa- 
sions. I reasonably expected the next moment a more vio- 
lent assault. I made as if I would pass — the fellow inter- 
rupted me. I felt a horror at the idea of a close brush, to 
which he himself seemed in no wise disinclined. For one 
unpleasant moment we stood face to face — to me unpleasant 
9* 



102 NARROW ESCAPE. 

— for by this time no doubt could remain of his design. To 
my ineffable satisfaction, however, he suddenly and unex- 
pectedly withdrew, and allowed me to pass. As I left him 
behind, apprehending his advance upon me in rear, I turned 
my head over my shoulder, and saw the secret of my de- 
liverance : two men had just entered upon the bridge, and 
were coming fast upon us. I know not why I did not stop 
to demand assistance to secure the arrest of the individual 
who had just interrupted me. I was indeed for the moment 
quite unmanned, and pushed directly to clear the bridge, 
which being accomplished, and finding myself safe in the 
Strand, and the street full of passengers, I must confess, 
that I felt the perspiration trickling down my whole frame, 
by the violent reaction of a sense of relief, after such a 
sense of danger. 

Even if I had been sufficiently self-possessed to under- 
take by calling help to secure the fellow who had stopped 
me, and had I succeeded, still he had committed no assault ; 
he had done me no harm ; he had only implored my assist- 
ance in his pretended distress ; and of course nothing crimi- 
nal could have been proved against him. 

Never before or since in London, during nearly four years' 
residence, did I meet with any thing of the kind to startle 
me. Such is the ubiquity and vigilance of the police, that 
there is no danger to be apprehended in passing through any 
of the principal streets at any hour of night, unless it be in 
one of those fogs, which not unfrequently in winter settle 
upon London, and render a walk in any street, without com- 
pany, absolutely appalling. I have been lost on ground as 
familiar to me as the room which I occupy ; and when half 
way between two lamps at the ordinary distance from each 
other, I could not know that either of them was lighted. 
Persons caught out at such times, if alone, are very much 
exposed to thieves and robbers, who are always on the alert 
to improve their opportunities. 

I should not perhaps say, that I have never since been 
startled from a like cause. I lodged for many months at 
No. 9, Amelia-place, Brompton ; and in passing to and from 
the city, was accustomed to turn the right angle at the north 
end of Brompton Crescent, where for a long time, and till 
within a few months, there was no lamp) — I mean none im- 
mediately at the corner. On that account I never consid- 
ered it exactly a safe place at a late hour. One can never 
know, till he arrives at the very point of the angle, who he 
may meet on turning it — and it is a very retired place. 1 
had engaged a hackney-coach to call for me at six o'clock 
precisely one morning in the winter, to take me to the city 
for a stagecoach going into the country. Six o'clock came, 
but not the man. Being impatient, and afraid of losing my 
seat, I threw on my cloak, took my umbrella and carpet-bag 



ANOTHER ENCOUNTER. 10'3 

under my arms, and started off on foot, to rouse the hackney- 
coach at a stable just around the said angle of the Crescent. 
I met the lamplighter extinguishing his lamps in a cloudy 
morning, and before a beam of day had appeared, leaving all 
darkness behind himself and before me. " Why do you put 
out the lamps before daylight ?" I said. " I am ordered to 
do it," was the sullen reply. It was to lighten the taxes, 
that I was left without light at an hour when it was most 
needed. Not a lamp was burning in the whole line of 
Brompton Crescent, or in the neighbourhood ; and yet I was 
doomed by this accident to pass the very corner, which I 
had always dreaded, in total darkness, at an hour when 
honest folks were all asleep, except for some such reason 
as called me out. I could not see any thing two rods before 
me, while, in the stillness of the hour, my own steps might 
be heard for a quarter of a mile. I was "bundled up in my 
cloak, with my bag under one arm and umbrella in another, 
and thus disabled, not only for flight, but for the least resist- 
ance, if assaulted. By this time the lamplighter — rather 
the lamp-extinguisher, was half a mile off, and all darkness 
between him and me, and before me. I approached the 
corner — and to my utter horror a man stood at the very 
point, facing me, and awaiting my approach ! I could not 
retreat, for there was not twelve feet between us when the 
darkness first permitted me to see him. He stood on the 
kerb of the sideway, about six feet from the wall, and my 
course lay between the wall and him. There was no time 
to make an election, as I was altogether in his power. I 
affected not to regard him, and attempted to pass. He 
remained motionless, staring at me, as if he had a right to 
scrutinize and examine me from top to toe. A reflection 
from his glazed hat showed me that he was a policeman. 
" Well,*' said I, " it's very wrong to put out the lamps at 
this hour." — " Very wrong," said he. " But" — approaching 
and feeling after my bundle — " what have you got under 
your arm here V At that moment the coach I was in pur- 
suit of drove out of the yard about two rods before us, and 
the interview which took place between me and the coach- 
man, and my getting into the coach, convinced the police- 
man that he had less reason to suspect me, than I had to 
fear him, when we first met. 

As to the case on Waterloo Bridge, all to whom I men- 
tioned the circumstances concurred with my own impres- 
sion at the moment of the encounter, as to the assailant's 
purpose. The manner of the villain could not be mistaken. 
Had it been a case of real and urgent distress, as he affected, 
he would naturally have called for assistance from the 
place where he lay, and not have sprung like a lion on his 
prey, and planted himself at my feet, and danced around, 
and so circumvented me that I could not pass. I was walk- 



104 CRIME IN LONDON. 

ing leisurely with an undisturbed, and I may add, unsus- 
pecting sense of security ; and though I might have been 
surprised at an unexpected appeal, by a plaint of distress, 
from one of those recesses, I do not think I should have 
been startled. Had I been doubtful, I should have crossed 
the bridge, and returned with a policeman. The only prob- 
able way, for a person in real distress, in such a situation to 
obtain assistance, was to remain, as was natural, in his re- 
cumbent or sitting posture. 

It was on the whole a tempting place for an experiment 
of the kind. The passengers on that bridge in the dead of 
night are known to be few. A fellow with such designs 
might remain upon it all night waiting his opportunities, 
without being known to the gate-keepers to be there ; for 
one of them must necessarily be ignorant of his admission, 
and the other that he had not gone off. If the unsuspecting 
passenger, being assaulted, should raise a cry of alarm, 
assistance must necessarily be tardy, and the robber, having 
accomplished his object, would have nineteen chances, if 
not ninety-nine, to one of escape, by declaring himself to 
be the assaulted, and running off the bridge to rouse the 
police ; and being off, he would be out of reach, even though 
he might have stabbed and thrown his victim into the river; 
all which might be done in a moment, if there was great 
inequality in the physical strength and preparation of the 
parties — a thing to be discovered, and a question first to be 
settled, by the assailant Murder would undoubtedly be the 
safest plan, as the person robbed, if not otherwise injured 
in his person, would naturally be upon the robber's heels at 
the gate ; if only wounded or knocked down, he might be 
a witness on the spot to prevent the escape, or afterward 
to ensure conviction of the criminal. " Dead men tell no 
tales." 

I know not that I shall have a fitter place than this, as the 
subject is now up, to attempt a brief development of the 
system of vice and crime in London. 

'" Inconsequence of the number of criminals and frequency of crime, 
which have been voluminously dwelt upon by various writers, the un- 
investigating inhabitant, or the inconsiderate visiter of the metropolis, 
might be tempted to conclude that within its limits there was no safety 
for property or life. But although there certainly are numerous classes 
of persons, consisting of plunderers in every shape, from the midnight 
robber and murderer to the poor perpetrators of petty pillage, — from 
the cultivated swindler and sharper to the daring street pickpocket ; 
and although thousands of men and women, following the occupation of 
roguery ,and prostitution, daily rise scarcely knowing how they are to 
procure subsistence for the passing hour, yet, when the extent of the 
population, merchandise, and commerce is considered, it is matter of 
surprise that so little open and daring inroad is made upon our persons 
.and property. There are thousands of persons in this metropolis 



CRIME IN LONDON. 105 

(which may be said, from the night and day work necessarily pursued 
in so trading a city, never to sleep), who have for years passed along 
the streets at all hours, without ever being robbed or seriously molested. 
Robbers lay wait for the timid and unwary, the dissolute and the 
drunken ; they seldom intercept the man who is steadily pursuing his 
course, without intermingling with suspicious company, or passing along 
by-streets. At night, persons should always prefer the leading public 
streets ; in them there are few lurking-holes ; and besides, in case of at- 
tack, there are almost sure to be passengers who will render assistance 
when they hear calls for help. Much, of course, depends on a per- 
son's own resolution and discretion. 

"Mr. Colquhoun very justly traces the origin of much of the crime 
that exists to the prevalence of public houses, bad education of appren- 
tices, servants out of place, Jews, receivers of stolen goods, pawnbro- 
kers, low gaming-houses, smuggling, associations in prison, and pros- 
titution. Not fewer than 30,000 prostitutes are supposed by Mr. C. 
to live in London, and it is presumed that eight tenths of these die pre- 
maturely of disease and misery, having previously corrupted twice their 
own number of young girls and young men. According to details fur- 
nished by the Guardian Society, and noticed in the Commons' Police 
Report, ' out of three parishes consisting of 9,924 houses, and 50,050 
inhabitants, there are 360 brothels, and 2,000 common prostitutes.' 

" One of the chief encouragements of crime undoubtedly is the re- 
ceiving of stolen property. In the metropolis Mr. C. believes there are 
upwards of 3,000 receivers of various kinds of stolen goods, and an 
equal proportion all over the country, who keep open shops for the pur- 
pose of purchasing at an under price, often for a mere trifle, every kind 
of property brought to them, and this without asking a single question. 
He further supposes that the property purloined and pilfered in and 
about the metropolis, may amount to 700,000/. in one year. There ex- 
ists in the metropolis a class of dealers extremely numerous, who keep 
open shops for the purchase of rags, old iron, and other metals. These 
are divided into wholesale and retail dealers. The retail dealers are 
the immediate purchasers, in the first instance, from the pilferers or 
their agents, and as soon as they collect a sufficient quantity of iron, 
brass, or other metals, worthy the notice of a large dealer, they dispose 
of it for ready money. Others are employed in the collection of old 
rags, and other articles purloined in the country. 

" Robbery and theft have, in many instances, been reduced to a reg- 
ular system. Houses intended to be entered during the night are pre- 
viously reconnoitred and examined for days preceding. If one or 
more of the servants are not already associated with the depredators, 
the most artful means are used to obtain their assistance, and when 
every previous arrangement is made, the mere operation of robbing a 
house becomes a matter of little difficulty. Night coaches promote, in 
many instances, the perpetration of burglaries and other felonies. Bribed 
by a high reward, the coachmen enter into the pay of nocturnal depre- 
dators, and wait in the neighbourhood untd the robbery is completed, 
and then draw up at the moment the policemen are going their rounds, 
or otf their stands, for the purpose of conveying the plunder to the 
house of the receiver, who is generally waiting for the issue of the 
enterprise. 

" The sharpers, swindlers, and rogues of various descriptions have 
undergone something like a classification by different writers ; and al- 

XJ o 



106 CRIME IN LONDON. 

though such an effort must be necessarily imperfect, partially to follow 
the example in this place may not be without its use. The following 
is a list of some of the species of cloaked marauders that beset the un- 
wary in this great metropolis — they deceive few but the ignorant and 
unthinking ; those, however, afford too rich a harvest. 

" 1. Sharpers who obtain licenses as pawnbrokers, and are uni- 
formly receivers ef stolen goods. 

" 2. Swindlers who obtain licenses to act as hawkers and pedlers, 
and establish fraudulent raffles, substitute plated goods for silver, sell 
and utter base coin, deal in smuggled goods, and receive stolen goods, 
with a view to dispose of them in the country. 

" 3. Swindlers who take out licenses as auctioneers. These open 
shops in different parts of the metropolis, with persons at the doors usu- 
ally denominated barkers, to invite strangers to walk in to attend the 
mock auctions. In these places various articles of silver plate and 
household goods are offered for sale, made up slightly, and of little in- 
trinsic value. Associates, called puffers, are in waiting to raise the 
article beyond its value, when on the first bidding of a stranger it is 
immediately knocked down to him, and, when it is too late, he discov- 
ers the snare he has fallen into. In addition to the price at which the 
article may be knocked down, they add certain sums for expenses, duty, 
&c. 

" 4. Swindlers who raise money by pretending to be discounters of 
bills and money-brokers. These chiefly prey upon young men of prop- 
erty, who have lost their money by gambling, or spent it in extrava- 
gant amusements. 

" 5. Jews who, under the pretence of purchasing old clothes and 
metals of various sorts, prowl about the houses of men of rank and for- 
tune, holding out temptations to their servants to pilfer and steal small 
articles, which they purchase at a trifling portion of their value. It is 
calculated that 1,500 of these people have their daily rounds. 

"6. Swindlers who associate together for the purpose of defrauding 
tradesmen of their goods. One assumes the character of a merchant, 
hires a genteel house, with a counting-house, and every appearance of 
business ; one or two of his associates take upon them the appearance 
of clerks, while others occasionally wear a livery ; and sometimes a 
carriage is set up, in which the ladies of the party visit the shops, in 
the style of persons of fashion, ordering goods to their apartments. 

" 7. Sharpers who take elegant lodgings, dress fashionably, and as- 
sume false names. These men pretend to be related to persons of real 
credit and fashion, produce letters familiarly written to prove intimacy, 
and when they have secured their good graces, purchase wearing ap- 
parel and other articles, and then disappear with the booty. 

" Besides these descriptions of rogues ' who live by their wits,' there 
are villains who associate systematically together for the purpose of 
discovering and preying upon persons from the country, or any ignorant 
person who is supposed to have money, or who has visited London 
with the view of selling goods, who prowl about the streets where shop- 
men and boys are carrying parcels, and who attend inns at the time 
that coaches and wagons are loading and unloading. These have re- 
course to a variety of stratagems, according to the peculiar circumstan- 
ces of the case, and in a multitude of instances succeed. Cheats, called 
duffers, go about the streets offering bargains, and attend public nouses, 
inns, and fairs, pretending to sell smuggled goods of India and other 



CRIME IN LONDON. 107 

foreign manufacture. In offering their goods for sale, they discover, 
by long-exercised acuteness, the proper objects to practise upon, and 
seldom fail to deceive the unwary purchaser, and to pass off forged 
country bank-notes, or base coin, in the course of dealings of any 
extent. 

" There are many female sharpers, who dress elegantly, personate 
women of fashion, attend masquerades, and instances have been known 
in which, by extraordinary effrontery, they have forced themselves into 
the circle of St. James's. One is said to have appeared in a stvie of 
peculiar elegance on the king's birthday in 1795, and to have pilfered, 
in conjunction with her husband, who was dressed as a clergyman, to 
the amount of 1,700/. without discovery or suspicion. Houses are kept 
where female cheats dress and undress for public places. Thirty or 
forty of these generally attend masquerades in different characters, 
where they realize a considerable booty. 

" In addition to this detail of swindlers and cheats may be mentioned 
gamblers. The principal gambling-houses are situated in St. James- 
street, Pall Mall, Bury-street, the Quadrant, and their vicinity. Some 
of them are supported by subscriptions, such as Crockford's in St. 
James-street, and others are the property of ruined gamblers and pet- 
tifogging attorneys. The principal houses, or ' hells,' as they have 
been characteristically termed, are only open when the town is full. 
Play is there carried on every day from one o'clock in the afternoon 
throughout the night. The games most in vogue are rouge et noir, un 
deux cinque, roulette, and hazard, at which sums of all amounts, from 
one shilling upwards, are staked. Splendid suppers and choice wines 
are given at these establishments, and luxuries of every description are 
lavished in order to attract the inexperienced. The profits of a well- 
known hell, for one season, have been calculated at 150,000/. In one 
night a million of money is said to have changed hands at this place. 

"As to the extent of crime, some few particulars may not be 
here out of place. Mr. Colquhoun estimates that, in the metropolis 
and its environs, there are 6,000 licensed ale-houses, constantly hold- 
ing out seductive lures to the labouring classes. To dram-drinking 
he, and most writers on the subject who speak from experience, attrib- 
ute the origin of much calamity and crime among the poor and indi- 
gent ; indeed, it appears that the very scenes of idle and unprincipled 
dissipation often witness the commencement of dishonest practices, as 
the publicans of London stated to the House of Commons, on applying 
for relief on the subject, that they were robbed of pewter pots to the 
amount of 100,000/. annually. 

14 When it is recollected that the splendid ' gin-shops' rise in mag- 
nificence on the increasing depravity of the lower orders, we are com- 
pelled with sorrow to denounce that improvidence which expends in 
liquid poison a fund of sufficient magnitude to establish a temple of 
comfort and enjoyment for the working classes. 

" According to the returns made to Parliament, we look in vain for 
the proofs of the decrease of crime. The number of committals to 
the jails of London and Middlesex, from 1811 to 1817, amounted to 
13,415; and in an equal period from 1821 to 1827, to 19,883; being 
an increase of 48 per cent., although the population has not increased 
more than 19 per cent. The number of persons committed in 1828 
amounted to 3,560. The entire number committed in 1832 was 
3,739. The number of executions has greatly diminished since 1829, 



108 CRIME IN LONDON. 

only one twentieth of the whole number sentenced haying suffered 
death." 

Since Colquhoim was at the head of the police, to whom 
we are indebted for the substance of the information con- 
tained in this extract, some changes have taken place. 

First, the number of prostitutes is supposed to have in- 
creased largely, and is commonly believed to range from 
40,000 to 50,000. In 1831, the number was stated at " nearly 
60,000," in " an appeal to the clergy, addressed more par- 
ticularly to the bishops and dignitaries of the Church of 
England, on the state of religion, morals, and manners in 
the British Metropolis." It was stated by the same author- 
ity, that there was " at least an equal number of thieves, 
coiners, and pickpockets, living by the daily depredations 
they commit on the property of the people." 

The number of licensed ale-houses and gin-shops, and 
consequently intemperance, together with the vices it gen- 
erates, have increased immensely. 

It would appear, however, from the official reports of 
criminal proceedings in the metropolis, that overt crime has 
diminished ; which is attributed to the greater efficiency of 
the police establishment. 

It is stated by the authority above named — "An Appeal," 
&c. — as " a well-known fact, that in the West End of the 
town, there are no less than forty gambling-houses of the 
first order, which have long been desecrated in the public 
journals, under the dark but appropriate appellation of 
' hells.' 1 .... The Sabbath is the high day of these estab- 
lishments. ( ! ) The sums won and lost in these resorts of 
fashionable dissipation have been stated at the annual amount 

of £7,000,000 (!) There are no fewer than 8,000 

lords and right honourable gentlemen and ladies, who regu- 
larly pay their visits to these abodes, where, upon an aver- 
age, the sum of £7,000 is lost and won every night these 
houses are open for play. . . (!) That which strikes the 
mind of the beholder with the most appalling feelings, is 
the immense sums staked by females of distinction." (!) 

This average of £7,000,000 a year and £7,000 a day, for 
the forty hells at the West End, is manifestly on a much 
smaller scale of gambling, than the £1,000,000 stated by 
Leigh, in the previous extracts, to have exchanged hands 
" in one night" at one house ! 

There is one mode of crime (indeed there are many) not 
adverted to in the previous specifications, viz., that of rob- 
bing banks. I will mention two instances : 

First, the case of the Bank of Swansea, South Wales. 
This account I received second-hand, and in a way not 
pretending to minute accuracy. It is sufficient, however, 



ROBBING OF BANKS. 109 

as I suppose, to illustrate the mode or system. It is a dis- 
tinct calling of a privileged and high order of thieves — or 
has been so. I believe it is not so successful of late years. 
London is of course the hiding-place of the band, and the 
business requires the entire devotion of associated and 
various talent, as well as capital. When they have got 
well a-going, it may be supposed they have capital enough. 
One essential part of the art consists in the manufacture 
of false keys ; and another in obtaining such facilities of 
doing business with the bank selected to be robbed, and 
showing such address in managing them, as to obtain ex- 
act patterns of all its modes of access to the vaults and 
chests of money without being suspected. Of course it 
must take time. The false keys are manufactured in 
London, and a constant and protracted intercourse must 
be kept up between headquarters and the point of assault. 
In the case of the Bank of Swansea, when all the prepar- 
ations had been made, it was entered on Sabbath evening, 
when people were at church, robbed, and left otherwise as 
it was found, with every lock fast and uninjured. It was 
not discovered till Monday morning, and the thieves arrived 
and were secreted in London before they could be over- 
taken. 

Besides a vast amount of available funds, they had carri- 
ed away important papers, which could be of no use to 
anybody but the bank. For the restoration of these a 
regular negotiation was opened through an attorney, who, 
by appointment, met one of the gang in London ; they 
dined together, amicably arranged the price to be paid by 
the bank ; the attorney advanced the money, and took the 
word of the thief for the delivery of the papers at a time 
and place agreed on. The papers were restored accord- 
ingly ; but the thieves were never apprehended. I under- 
stand that one or more of them, having been since con- 
victed and brought to justice for other crimes, have confes- 
sed to that robbery. 

The other case is the robbery of the Bank of Paisley at 
Glasgow, in 1811, by Mackcoull and his associates, which 
by similar means, and after occupying several months, was 
completely successful, and the robbers arrived safe in Lon- 
don with their booty. In 1820, Mackcoull had the astonish- 
ing boldness to prosecute the bank for the payment of some 
of the notes of which he himself had robbed it, and was 
detected, tried, and convicted. " The Life and Trial of 
James Mackcoull 1 ' was published at Edinburgh in 1822, as 
developing a remarkable series of daring and desperate ad- 
ventures, exceeding any of the accounts in "Johnson's 
Lives of Highwaymen." 

It is remarkable, I believe, that the most successful rob- 
beries of banks in the United States have been done by 
10 



110 LONDON POLICE. 

pupils directly or mediately connected with the London 
school. When they cannot find enough to do there, or are 
circumvented, they come to America ; and from their igno- 
rance of the country, they are much sooner brought to jus- 
tice here than in England. 

In connexion with crime in London, the interesting sys- 
tem of the London police establishment may be considered 
worthy of a brief notice. 

" The police of such a metropolis as that of London cannot fail to 
excite interest in the minds of inhabitants as well as of visiters ; for 
next to the blessings which a nation may derive from an excellent con- 
stitution and system of general laws, are those advantages which result 
from a well-regulated and energetic police, conducted and enforced 
with purity, activity, vigilance, and discretion. 

" The City of London, as already stated, is under the control of its 
own magistracy, consisting of the lord mayor and aldermen. There 
are two police-offices : one in the Mansion-house, where the lord 
mayor presides ; and the other at Guildhall, where the aldermen sit 
in rotation. All cases which occur east of King-street are taken to 
the Mansion-house, and those west of King-street to Guildhall. Both 
offices usually commence business at 12 o'clock. 

" The principal police officers under the lord mayor and aldermen, 
are two marshals, under whom are eight marshalmen, whose business 
it is to attend the lord mayor on all state occasions, to attend the 
courts of aldermen and common council, the Old Bailey sessions, and 
to superintend the management of the inferior officers of police. The 
city has also day and night patrol ; and Smithfield patrol, who attend 
on market-days to keep order. 

" Besides the general police of the city, similar to that of Westmin- 
ster, each ward appoints beadles, constables, patrol, watchmen, and 
street-keepers, according to its size. 

" The Metropolitan Police, established by Sir R. Peel, comprises 
all parts of the metropolis and its vicinity out of the jurisdiction of the 
city, and within twelve miles of Charing Cross. These are placed 
under the control of a board of police, consisting of three commission- 
ers. This new police was commenced in several of the parishes in 
Westminster, Sept 29, 1829, and gradually extended to the other 
districts. The old watch-rates were abolished, and a general police 
tax substituted instead of them. The metropolitan police district is 
formed into divisions, varying in size, but having the same number of 
men and officers. In each is a station or watch-house, from which 
point the duty is carried on. Every division is designated by a local 
name, and a letter of the alphabet. Each division is again divided 
into eight sections, and each section into eight beats, the limits of which 
are clearly defined. 

" The police force consists of as many companies as there are divis- 
ions. Each company comprises one superintendent, four inspectors, 
sixteen sergeants, and 144 police constables. The company is divided 
into sixteen parties, each consisting of one sergeant and nine men. 
Four sergeants' parties, or one fourth of the company, form an inspec- 
tor's party. The whole is under the command of the superintendent. 
Each man is marked on the collar of his coat with the letter of his 



LONDON POLICE. Ill 

division, and a number corresponding with his name in the books of 
the office, so that he may at all times be recognised. The first six- 
teen numbers in each division denote the sergeants. All the police- 
men are dressed in blue uniform, and at night wear dark brQwn great- 
coats. Each man is furnished with a rattle, a staff, and a lantern. 

" The policemen are on duty at all hours, but of course a greater 
number are employed at night than in the day. One part of the force 
continues on duty from the evening till midnight, and the other from 
midnight till morning. The day police is also relieved in the same 
manner. The night police is of great utility in cases of fire, as in 
the watch-house of each division is kept an account of the names of 
the turncocks, and of the places where engines are kept. Besides the 
parochial engines, many public bodies are provided with them ; and 
the principal ensurance-offices have engines stationed in various dis- 
tricts, with active men and horses. Water is supplied immediately 
by means of fire-plugs. 

" Police -Offices. For those parts of the metropolis out of the juris- 
diction of the city, twenty-seven stipendiary magistrates are appointed. 
Three at Bow-street, under a jurisdiction long established, and twenty- 
four by a statute called the ' police act,' passed in 1792. 

" These twenty-four have eight different offices assigned to them, 
at different distances in Westminster, Middlesex, and Surrey ; namely, 
one in each of the following streets : Bow-street, Great Marlborough- 
street, Hatton Garden, Worship-street, Shoreditch, Lambeth-street, 
Whitechapel, High-street, Marylebone, Queen Square, Westminster, 
and Union-street, Southwark. Besides these, there is the Thames 
police-office, Wapping. 

" The duty of the magistrates in these offices extends to several im- 
portant judicial proceedings, which, in a variety of instances, they are 
empowered and required to hear and determine in a summary way ; 
particularly in cases relating to the customs, excise, coaches, carts, 
pawnbrokers, persons unlawfully pawning the property of others, &c. 
Their duty also extends to the cases of persons charged with being 
disorderly, or brought for examination under charges of treason, mur- 
der, felony, fraud, and misdemeanors of every description. At each 
of these offices there are three magistrates ; two of whom attend every 
day except Sunday, and one every evening ; two clerks, an office- 
keeper, &c. Each office has from eight to twelve constables attached 
to it, who are termed ' police officers.' Their pay from government 
is only one guinea per week ; and for the rest of their means of exist- 
ence they depend on the profits arising out of the services of sum- 
monses, warrants, &c, and portions of penalties. 

" The office for regulating disputes relating to hackney-coaches has 
been removed from Essex-street to Bow-street, a circumstance which 
appears to have rendered the administration of justice in that particular 
less easy and certain. 

" The police magistrates are now almost invariably selected from 
among barristers, according to regulations established by Lord Sid- 
mouth. They have each an annual salary of 600/., and the resident 
magistrate has the house in which the office is held to live in. 

" The Bow-street police-office is upon a more enlarged scale than 
the rest. It has three magistrates, with salaries of 800/. per annum ; 
the chief magistrate having 500/. a year in addition, instead of fees. 
He has also 500/. per annum for superintending the horse-patrol. The 



112 LONDON POLICE. 

expense of this office, for a recent year, was 12,270/., while that of the 
seven other offices, not including the Thames police, was 24,196/. 
The whole expense, horse-patrols, Thames police, &c, for the same 
year, amounted to 51,796/. Besides the usual number of constables, 
horse-patrols ride every evening and night on the principal roads, to 
the distance of ten or fifteen miles from town. They have small 
houses to reside in on their various beats, with tablets bearing the title 
* Horse-Patrol Station' affixed to each. This body of men is well 
armed, and is under the direction of chief magistrates of this office. 
The chief magistrate of the Bow-street office communicates daily 
with the secretary of state for the home department, as do the magis- 
trates of the other offices, when matters of deep interest affecting the 
public tranquillity require such communication. Besides this, all the 
offices make monthly returns of the informations received, and of per- 
sons committed and discharged, which return from each office is pre- 
sented by one of its magistrates, that inquiries may be made if neces- 
sary. 

"The Thames Police was established in 1798, for the purpose of re- 
pressing the numerous depredations on the Thames, which had then 
become notorious. Its importance will be admitted, when it is recol- 
lected that in this river are engaged upwards of 13,000 vessels, which 
annually discharge and receive more than three millions of packages. 
The superintendence of this department of the police extends from 
Vauxhall to Woolwich, embracing the quays, docks, wharves, &c, of 
both banks of the river, with the exception of the space from Tower stairs 
to the Temple, belonging to the jurisdiction of the city. There are 
three principal stations : at Somerset House, at Wapping, and at Black- 
wall ; and between these, three boats are constantly plying at night. 
The chief office at Wapping is open during the whole night." 

It will be understood, that the Metropolitan Police is dis- 
tinct from that of the city of London. The system has 
operated so well, that the city authorities seem inclined 
lately to abandon their own and adopt this. It has been 
shown, that besides being more efficient, it will be a great 
saving of money. 

% The next day after my encounter with the suspicious per- 
sonage on Waterloo Bridge, I took in my head to visit the 
Thames Tunnel; and being somewhat of a pedestrian, I 
went on foot and alone. For the benefit of those who may 
wish to see this subterranean, or rather submarine, work 
of human enterprise and art, and who have never plunged 
into the dark and crooked ways and filthy regions of that 
great city, let me advise them either to take a passage by 
the river, or inquire well the* farthest way round, that may 
conduct them most pleasantly, or least disagreeably, to this 
far and out-of-the-way place. Like an American Indian, 
who lays his course through the forest in a direct line, and 
follows it up by the suggestions of instinct, having arrived 
at London Bridge, thus far and no farther acquainted, I be- 
gan to inquire the shortest way to the " Thames Tunnel," 



THAMES TUNNEL. 113 

and failed not to receive civil answers in the outset, while 
among the civilized portion of the metropolis. It was eleven 
o'clock ; and the morning had showed symptoms of a Lon- 
don dark day of December. He who has never seen such 
a day in London itself, cannot understand it. If one hap- 
pens to be sitting at his table, reading or writing, he per- 
ceives the shades coming on, not unlike those experienced 
in fainting, and he doubts, perhaps, whether it be nature 
without or within. They thicken, and come rolling on like 
waves; and now he cannot see to read. He rings his bell 
and calls for candles, and orders the servant to close the 
blinds, that he may have perfect night, rather than be half 
way between. In all the shops of the town, the gas-lights 
are set in full blaze. If it happens to be night, alas ! for the 
wanderer. The stagecoaches come slowly into town by 
the aid of link-boys (links are torches), dancing along at the 
heads of the horses, in expectation of a sixpence from the 
coachman, if they have come miles enough to have earned 
it. One of these fogs came over London on the queen's 
birthday night, and it was not a little amusing to observe the 
throngs groping about the streets in search of the illumina- 
tions ! and link-boys leading the way, brandishing their 
flambeaux, and crying out, " Here is the illumination .'" and 
then bowing — " Remember the link-boy, sir." 

The day I went to see the Thames Tunnel was one of 
these. The waves of darkness rolled over the metropolis. 
The Tunnel is a good long mile, as I should think, below 
London Bridge ; and having been begun on the south side of 
the river, the way to approach the only entrance, most 
directly from the city, on foot, leads through the lowest, 
vilest regions of the Borough of Southwark — Bermondsey 
and Rotherhithe. I wandered on, dodging this way and that 
way, asking, and as often forgetting my direction. It grew 
darker, and the lanes I had to thread became narrower, fil- 
thier, and more intricate. I asked again. " You are going 
the wrong way, sir. Yonder" — second, or third, or fourth 
turning, to the right or left, as might be. Where lamps or 
lights of any kind were to be had, they began to light them 
up. The ragged and filthy creatures in the streets stared at 
me, seeming to say within themselves—-" He does not be- 
long here." Some of them followed me with observing 
look, till I had turned a corner, or was lost in the fog. Now 
and then I stumbled on a ruffian, nendly-looking form ; and 
he, as I thought, was sure to mark me. It was a region of 
barbarians, and I was bewildered and lost in the midst of 
them. When I thought it prudent to inquire, some made the 
distance great, and some little : some said, Go this way, and 
some that ; and most of them' concluded with, " It is very 
dark, sir." A decent human being, in whom one could re- 
pose confidence, was nowhere to be found. 
10* 



114 THAMES TUNNEL. 

In spjte of all my philosophy, the remembrance of the 
enactment of Waterloo Bridge twelve hours before came 
stealing over me, conjuring up a thousand chances of anoth- 
er unpleasant rencounter, and exciting strange sensations. 
There was little choice between returning and going for- 
ward ; whichever way I strolled, I was dependant on the ad- 
vice of those beings in the midst of whom I found myself; 
and by reason of mistakes in gaining my ultimate point, I 
could not have walked less than two miles for one. 

At last I arrived under darkness so considerable, that the 
keeper of the entrance was burning his lamp at mid-day to 
keep his books. " Are there any visiters here to-day ?'•' I 
asked. " Two men have just gone down, and you will find 
a waiter at the extremity of the tunnel." — " Two men .'" I 
had paid my entrance before I received this answer, and in 
any other circumstances I should not probably have regard- 
ed it. But I had been long enough in England to have 
learned, that English servants are very nice in distinguishing 
between " men" and " gentlemen," and that they rarely mis- 
take or call one for the other. It was " two menV It was 
evident enough that he was not likely to be crowded with 
company on such a dismal day. I must therefore take my 
chance with what was before me — "two men," whom I 
could not avoid encountering at some point. 

Can any one wonder that I should think of the last night 1 
Absolutely, from what I had passed through in a half hour 
previous, it seemed as if hosts of barbarians were planted 
between me and the civilized world ; and who could know 
what these " two mew" might be 1 Besides, what favourable 
hour and circumstance for a conspiracy ! No one there 
knew me ; I knew not them ; no friend in the world knew I 
had gone there ; and the day itself was as dark as the dark- 
est thoughts. 

Notwithstanding, having received my instructions, I began 
to descend the shaft round and round, descending and de- 
scending, having left the little light of a dark day behind, 
and meeting only in one place a faint and glimmering taper, 
just enough to make the darkness visible, After feeling and 
poking and stumbling along — down the stairs — I found my- 
self at last at the bottom, which was sixty feet deep. The 
stairway leading down is a crude framework, and the region 
around was impenetrable darkness. 

Arrived at that place, I ought to have been prepared for 
one of the most imposing and attractive visions which the 
art and labours of man ever created, especially in such cir- 
cumstances. The moment I had landed upon the firm earth 
below, from the winding stairs, and cast my eye upon the 
perspective of that long and apparently interminable vista 
of subterranean masonry, finished and vaulted in the most 
perfect and beautiful .curvilinear forms, and lighted up in the 



THAMES TUNNEL. 115 

whole distance by blazing lamps suspended from the side, 
and imparting the most enchanting effect to the eye, it 
seemed another world. I stopped a moment to think of the 
floods rolling above it, and of the ships floating upon their 
bosom ; and here, underneath them all, and undisturbed, the 
one and each unconscious of their relations to the other — 
here is this peaceful, quiet, incomparable vision ! all existing 
at the peril of all ! I hesitated — looked — listened. And as 
I listened, I heard a whisper ! a very whisper ! Again a 
whisper ! a frequent whisper ! Horrible ! 

I stood at the moment in the midst of darkness at the bot- 
tom of the shaft, surrounded, enveloped with darkness! 
The assault of the previous night was play to this ! Again 
a whisper ! a tormenting whisper ! It was earnest — impas- 
sioned ! and it was near enough to lay a hand upon me ! It 
seemed at my ear! but nothing visible but darkness. A 
freezing chill ran through all my veins. Backward I could 
not go, for I could not see the foot of the stairs, which I 
had left behind. I was buried from the world and from day ; 
all seemed infernal. And as if the whisper were not 
enough, there was a whisper laugh ! a burst ! the very laugh 
of demons ! I sprang forward to the beginning of the tun- 
nel, and of the row of lamps, and stopped. Still the whis- 
perings followed me, and the stifled laughter! but I now 
stood under the lamps ; could look around me ; but I heard 
no tread — I saw no form of man or demon. 

In looking forward, however, I saw the forms of men in 
the farther extremity ; and I hastened to join them, prefer- 
ring their society and their protection, whatever it might be : 
and all the way the whispering and laughing voices, louder 
and more earnest, followed me. 

As I had been certified, I found the " two men," and the 
waiter sitting in a recess smoking his pipe. They were at 
the end of the finished part of the tunnel, under the middle 
of the river ; the man with the pipe sitting at his ease, and 
answering such questions as we put to him. While engaged 
in colloquy with this interpreter of the mysteries, I cast now 
and then a furtive glance on my society, to satisfy myself 
whether I should prefer their company out, or again to en- 
counter those demoniacal salutations alone. I chose the 
latter, for they proved to be " men" of savage looks ; and 
turning carelessly on my heel, affecting the airs of indiffer- 
ence, I walked leisurely back for a little ; then quickened 
my step, as I observed they did not accompany me ; I has- 
tened on, and found myself among the whispering voices 
again ; rushed through the darkness to the foot of the stairs, 
and most luckily met them at the first touch. In another 
moment I was at the top. 

When, however, I found myself safe in the regions of 
.-day, or where day ought to be, I paused to think of the scene 



116 THAMES TUNNEL. 

I had just witnessed, and of the perils, real or imaginary, 
which I had there encountered. I philosophized upon the 
whisperings and voices, and came to this very philosophical 
conclusion : That the tunnel in its condition at that time was 
a whispering-gallery, which has been proved to be a fact. 
Those " men" and the waiter at the further end were little 
aware of the startling and appalling effect which their talk- 
ing and bursts of laughter produced on me, as the echoes 
rolled along, and floated past my ears, while I stood at the 
base of the shaft, enveloped in darkness. 

I could not be aware of the impression made on my 
feelings, by the assault the night previous on Waterloo 
Bridge, till I came to this place. But having been the 
subject of that so recently; and now, after such a tedious, 
dark, loathsome, and exciting way of access, to find myself 
alone in those infernal regions, with just light enough to 
make the darkness visible ; to see dark caves (in the second 
unfinished archway, parallel to the first) opening their yawn- 
ing mouths, without reporting what might be there ; to hear 
those voices and whisperings, coming from invisible talkers, 
and now and then a laugh, horrible and fiendly, as it seemed, 
all made strange by the strangeness of the circumstances — 
was not, I confess, particularly agreeable. The emblazoned 
vista of the tunnel was not a charm sufficient to charm away 
the effect of these horrible salutations. 

Having got safely out, I threw myself into a wherry;' and 
by the aid of oars and a rapid flood tide, shot through the 
midst of the shipping lying in the Thames, and soon found 
myself ashore at the London Bridge. 

I have visited the Thames Tunnel once since in a clear 
day, and found the shaft light enough from without to 
observe all its parts. This shaft is 60 feet deep and 50 in 
diameter. When the river broke into the tunnel by acci- 
dent, it filled in four and a half minutes within six feet of 
the top of the shaft, giving only that time for all the work- 
men to escape, who were caught under the bed of the 
Thames near its middle, 500 feet from the shore. Six of 
them were drowned, and two more have perished there by 
other accidents. The tunnel has already cost something 
less than .£200,000. Government have lately pledged 
£250,000, as a loan for its completion, and the work is 
recommenced. It will probably cost nearly, or quite, 
£1,000,000. 

This novel undertaking was projected by Mr. Brunei. It 
is intended to form a communication between Rotherhithe 
and Wapping, by means of a passage under the Thames, 
and will certainly, when completed, be one of the most 
extraordinary constructions of ancient or modern times. 

The tunnel consists of two brick archways ; and in order 
that there may be no obstruction to carriages, those going 



NEWGATE. 117 

from north to south will pass through one, and those from 
south to north through the other. These passages are 
paved or macadamized, with convenient sidewalks for foot- 
passengers. In the centre, between the two archways, and 
dividing the two roads, is to be a line of arches, spacious 
enough to admit of persons passing from one road to the 
other, and in each of these arches a gas-light. The 
approaches to the entrance of the tunnel are to be formed 
by circular descents of easy declivity, not exceeding four 
feet per hundred feet ; one of small dimensions for pedes- 
trians, and another larger for carriages. The descent is so 
gradual that there will be no necessity to lock the wheel of 
the heaviest-laden wagon. The first stone of the descent 
for pedestrians on the south side of the river near Rother- 
hithe Church, was laid March 2, 1825. That portion of the 
tunnel which is completed is open daily to visiters on pay- 
ment of one shilling each. 

Dimensions of the Tunnel. — Length 1,300 feet; width 35 
feet; height 20 feet; clear width of each archway, including 
footpath, about 14 feet; thickness of earth beneath the crown 
of the tunnel and the bed of the river, about 15 feet. 

In the neighbourhood is a curious specimen of Mr. Bru- 
nei's ingenuity, being the segment of an arch of 100 feet 
span, built without centring. 

The feasibility of this project is demonstrated ; and cer- 
tainly it is a very sublime one for so low a place. Crowds of 
people will one day pass through it safely in carriages and 
on foot, with fleets of shipping floating over their heads ! 



NEWGATE. 

A stranger in the city of London, who might happen to 
be passing up Skinner-street towards Cheapside, and arriving 
at the cross-ways, in one angle of which stands the Church 
of St. Sepulchre, near Smithfield, would probably be struck 
with the appearance of an extraordinary, rough, sombre, 
heavy, and apparently impregnable wall, which turns the 
farther corner on his right, running far down the street 
towards Ludgate Hill, and stretching a few scores of feet 
along the way himself is pursuing. It is lofty — it is with- 
out windows and without doors, except in one or two 
places, which have somewhat the aspect of an entrance to 
some stronghold. 

Or if he happen to be going the same way at fifteen 
minutes past eight o'clock in the morning, looking down on 
his right, he will perhaps see two, or three, or half a dozen 



118 NEWGATE. 

human beings, hanging by the neck to a beam thrust out for 
the occasion from this wall ; and many thousands of spec- 
tators literally crammed and piled into every inch of space, 
which might afford a view of these suffering victims, as they 
struggle with death for offences lighter, probably, than the 
conscious guilt of half the multitude who are looking on. 

This wall is Newgate Prison ; and the open space in front 
of it is commonly called the Old Bailey. 

By the politeness of a friend, I was introduced to the 
governor of this prison, as an American gentleman, desiring 
the privilege of admission to inspect the internal forms and 
economy of the place. 

" Sir, we have nothing to compare with your prisons in 
America," said the governor; "but, with great pleasure, we 
will show you what we have." 

In a moment a keeper answered the bell-string, and was 
ordered to show us the prison — a pleasant and intelligent 
man to look upon, and apparently also of good feeling. He 
at least understood his duty, and was evidently at home in 
the place. We passed from the governor's office into the 
apartment next the street and leading to the prison, through 
which prisoners are committed, or make their exit for the 
gallows, or transportation, or being set at large. It happen- 
ed at the time we passed (and there is probably no hour of 
the day when something of the kind is not doing there), that 
two policemen had brought in a fellow to be recognised, 
as having been there before, being accused of a fresh of- 
fence of some kind. It was decided that he had been there, 
but it was doubtful whether he came as a prisoner, or the 
friend of a prisoner. 

" Give him the benefit of the doubt, then," said the keeper, 
who seemed to be appealed to as judge, "and let him go." 
All this seemed very reasonable, I thought, and humane, if 
the prisoner was merely suspected. I had afterward occa- 
sion to remark how much the fate of prisoners, committed 
for trial, depends on character. To have been there, or in 
any other prison before, is a bad mark. 

We passed first into apartments tenanted by females, 
committed for trial under charge of various offences. The 
female prisoners, I understood, were most of them from 
among the bad women of the city. As we entered their 
rooms, passing from one to another, they were at their 
meals. They were evidently taken by surprise ; they all 
rose ; some of them courtesied, and remained standing 
while we were there. The countenances of some were 
good — even pleasant. There were old persons, middle- 
aged, and young. They did not seem particularly anxious 
not to be seen — and yet they were subdued and chastened 
in their manners, so much so as to excite a feeling of in- 
terest and of benevolent compassion. 



NEWGATE. 119 

I was distressed and wished I had not been there, when 
the keeper went on to say, in a loud voice and careless 
manner (I do not mean unfeeling, for he was very much of 
a gentleman), so as to be heard by all the prisoners as well 
as by us: "These women are here for such and such 
offences ; committed for trial ; you see how they live ; they 
are allowed rations so and so; there are twenty in this 
room, ten in that, and so on ; these are their mats, hanging 
up, and those their blankets which they take down and 
spread on this inclined plane (plank floor), bounded by this 
foot board, where they sleep ; we have some seventy-five 
of them brought in since the last sessions ; it is uncertain 
how many of them will be convicted and transported, 
perhaps four fifths ;" &c. all in the hearing of these poor 
creatures. 

Yes, I wished myself away. It was enough that they had 
sinned; enough that they knew their character ruined; 
enough that they had fallen into the hands of the law, and 
been incarcerated; enough that they were cut off from 
society and disgraced, compelled to think on the past and 
anticipate the future — without suffering this unnecessary 
infliction, if they had any feeling left, occasioned by our 
introduction and this conversation. And evidently they had 
feeling — they betrayed it. Not unlikely there was the sup- 
pressed sigh of penitence in some of those wounded spirits, 
connected with a thousand succeeding, never-ending, and 
painful regrets for past offences. What and how many re- 
lations of life had been made to bleed by their fall ; and 
where whole families had fallen with them, so much the 
more pitiable. Those who were alone, without parents, or 
brother, or sister, or friends — what desolation ! They all 
wore a form that is human, which we always respect, and 
above all in a condition of suffering. As offenders and 
when at large, virtue loathed their vileness, and was filled 
with disgust at the thought of their character; but here 
they were suffering for their offences, and our feelings 
towards them in such a condition were changed. 

We left these apartments for those of female convicts, 
already doomed to transportation — of whom there were 
some dozens in this prison, waiting to be taken away. 
They were all dressed alike, plain, but decent and comforta- 
ble ; they did not appear particularly unhappy ; they knew 
their fate, and had probably resigned themselves to it. 
There also many of them had very good looks. Being at 
table, like the others, they all rose and waited in like man- 
ner, till we had passed through and returned ; and similar 
conversations took place in hearing of these, as before nar- 
rated, much to my discomfort. It seemed to me that 
nothing should be said in the hearing of prisoners, but 
words of kindness, expressive of a sympathy for their con- 



120 NEWGATE. 

dition, calculated to afford them the consolations of religion, 
and induce amendment of life. I do not think it was un- 
kindness, but mere want of consideration, and a wish to 
give information, that dictated these remarks ; more truly, 
perhaps, a custom in witnessing the scene, and some knowl- 
edge of facts, which gave these women less credit for feel- 
ing, than the proprieties of their deportment before us 
seemed to demonstrate. 

Especially were my feelings shocked, as we entered one 
of the smaller rooms, containing three women, one aged, 
one quite young, the other perhaps thirty-five, with one of 
the finest countenances, and apparently the most innocent 
that could be looked upon. She was a woman who, in good 
society, and of good character, must have been respected 
and loved by all, as one might believe. They rose as we 
entered, and kept standing. " These small rooms," said our 
conductor, " used to be occupied by women under sentence 
of death." 

I ventured, though not without effort, to look upon the 
face of this fair-looking woman, as this cruel remark was 
made. Her eyes rolled up to heaven, her eyelids dropped 
to a complete close, exhibiting apparently the submission 
and meekness of a penitent soul, looking to heaven for her 
only consolation, and seeming to say, "Oh, is it possible 
that I am in such a place, and doomed to such trials !" 

The effect of kindness, of a tender and sympathizing re- 
gard for such persons, is well illustrated by the following 
extract from Mrs. Frey's account of her offices in this very 
prison : — 

" Our rules have certainly been occasionally broken, but 
very seldom. Order has been generally observed. I think 
I may say, we have full power among them ; for one of 
them said, it was more terrible to be brought before me than 
before the judge, though we use nothing but kindness. I 
have never punished a woman during the whole time, or 
ever proposed a punishment to them ; and yet I think it is 
impossible, in a well-regulated house, to have rules more 
strictly attended to, than they are as far as I order them." 

" Though we use nothing but kindness.'''' Simple-hearted, 
admirable woman ! An angel of mercy ! Thou shouldst have 
said, Because we use nothing but kindness. 

" Abashed the devil stood, 
And felt how awful goodness is, and saw 
Virtue in her shape how lovely." 

From these parts of the prison we went among the males. 
From the bad construction of this place, they are not able 
to introduce the modern and more perfect modes of prison 
discipline. Large classes of twenty or thirty are put into 
the same room — the only rule of classification being to put 



NEWGATE. 121 

the vilest with the vile, and the more decent with those of 
their own order. It is unnecessary to say, after all that has 
been revealed on this subject, how much even the best of 
them must administer to each other's increased corruption 
in such society. 

We passed through many rooms and courts well stocked 
with prisoners, some convicted, and others waiting for trial. 

In the dispensary, a very comfortable-looking place, a man 
was sitting on a form, apparently reading a penny magazine, 
or something of the kind, and who would attract any one's 
attention from the extraordinary dimensions of his body. 
He was nearly as thick as long ; and made me think of Lam- 
bert, and I should suppose was equally worthy of being ex- 
hibited in show. He was well dressed and clean. He 
seemed resolved to hide his face from us by his paper, and 
yet was continually stealing glances of the visiters. I should 
have taken him for the apothecary, or some other servant. 
His eye was as unfortunately made as his body, and by no 
means pleasant to look upon. It was enough to frighten 
one. As we turned our backs and retired, I asked — " Who 
is that !" 

. " It is Mr. , a printseller, from Bond-street, who has 

been committed for exposing obscene pictures in his shop 
window." 

" Ay, I am glad you are looking to that matter in London. 
It promises well. But I think surely this fat man might 
have a companion of his own class from the Burlington Ar- 
cade, who may well deserve to be here." 

" The committal is a novel case, and an experiment. It 
is uncertain what will be the issue of the trial." 

We visited an apartment with fifteen tenants (males) un- 
der sentence of death. They were permitted to be in one 
room in the daytime, and were shut up three in a cell at 
night. They were most of them young men ; some mere 
youth. " A boy in England," said a foreign traveller, " is 
independent at eight, and hanged at twelve," — a severe libel, 
indeed, yet not without facts to have provoked its sugges- 
tion. Thousands and tens of thousands of children in Lon- 
don are born and educated in crime. 

" What proportion of these fifteen men are likely to suf- 
fer]" I asked. 

" Two or three of the most aggravated cases probably ; 
the rest will be transported." 

" And how long are those doomed to the scaffold permit- 
ted to live, after the recorder's report has decided the ques- 
tion V 

" About a week." 

" A short time to prepare for death. They do not realize 
they are to die till the report is made, I suppose?" 

" Rarely." 

F 11 



122 NEWGATE. 

We passed next into an apartment containing a dozen 
juvenile delinquents, a sad spectacle, from eight to fifteen 
years of age ! The youngest was one of two brothers in the 
same room, and said to be the most accomplished rogue of 
the whole class. We asked him what he and his brother 
were there for \ He told the story, it being some little theft, 
exculpating themselves principally. 

" Every word of that story is a lie," said our conductor. 
"Is it not?" appealing to the elder brother, "Yes, sir." 
Any one, methinks, of right views, must have been distress- 
ed at seeing these brothers brought into such a contra- 
diction. 

These young offenders, I believe, after conviction, are 
put into a house of correction, and afterward apprentn od 
out. An adult prisoner was occupied here as their school- 
master, who paraded and exhibited them for our inspection, 
with all the pride and importance of a genuine pedagogue. 
He seemed to think himself in an honourable place, and the 
boys, no doubt, were better provided for than ever before. 
" I want a pair of shoes," said one to the keeper. " And I 
too," said another. " I want a shirt, sir," said a third ; while 
two or three others exhibited a tattered coat, or pair of 
trousers, in no better condition, with a like request. 

" An English labourer is not so well provided for," says 
Mr. Bulwer, " as an English pauper ; a pauper receives less 
for his comfort than a criminal committed for trial ; a con- 
victed criminal, who is not to be hung, is better off yet ; a 
convict sentenced to transportation is better provided for 
than either : so that the English criminal code has set a 
bounty on crime, and placed the strongest temptation in the 
way of going from one degree of crime to another." I do 
not profess to quote Bulwer's language, but this is the sum. 
And although it is perhaps a slight exaggeration, yet it is 
substantially true in fact, and in its moral influence. The 
English poor cannot rise, however industrious ; and ordina- 
rily their depressions are so great, and their habits so servile, 
as to destroy that pride of character which aspires after in- 
dependence. Hence so many covet the privileges of pau- 
perism, and throw themselves upon the parish. A sturdy 
and lazy fellow will marry a widow pauper, because she has 
children, and the more the better. Her children are his 
fortune, as the parish provisions for the family are in pro- 
portion to the number of children. And as Bulwer says, to 
be a criminal, and the higher the grade of offence, short of 
being capital, the more permanent and independent the pro- 
vision. " Save me from the gallows," is all they ask for. 
Few know the recklessness under which the English poor 
run into crime ; and I know not how large a portion of them 
are tempted to do it for these reasons. In our country the 
industrious poor have always the blandishments of hope to 



PRISONS IN LONDON. 123 

excite their ambition ; in England it is not so ; and the more 
comfortable condition, aside from the loss of character, 
which has too little influence, is to fall upon the parish, or 
upon the provisions of the criminal code. 

While thousands appear to be starving in the streets, and 
are houseless, the prison is a good home ; and there they 
have always enough to eat and drink, and wherewithal to 
cover their nakedness. 

They have a well-appointed chaplaincy at Newgate, and 
Bibles, prayer-books, religious books, and tracts in every 
room and every cell. The chapel is a decent place of 
public worship, which is regularly attended on the Sabbath, 
with occasional lectures and prayers in the week time. 
Directly in front of the pulpit is a pew large enough to 
seat about fifty under sentence of death, which is all paint- 
ed black. 

" Look here," said the conductor, " do you see these de- 
facements and figures within this enclosure, executed by 
the hands of these criminals under sentence of death, 
while kneeling at prayers, as performed by the chaplain, 
making sport of their doom'?" 

The figure to which their taste most inclined them, was 
a gallows, with one, three, or half a dozen hanging upon it 
by the neck ! and all manner of inventions, especially those 
obscene ! as vile schoolboys often mark and deface the 
tables, benches, and ceilings of their place of education. 
Alas ! what melancholy proofs of our fallen nature ! Within 
the compass of five days after being thus occupied — nay, 
the next day, perhaps the next hour, these very men may 
hang by the neck in the street, not ten yards from this their 
own handiwork. 

Newgate prison is the common jail for London and Mid- 
dlesex. It dates from 1218 — was rebuilt in the early part 
of the fifteenth century — became a ruin in the great fire of 
1666 — was soon reconstructed, but afterward pulled down 
and rebuilt in 1778 to 1780. In the riots of 1780 the inte- 
rior was destroyed by fire — after which it received its pres- 
ent forms, strong enough indeed, but miserably contrived 
for salutary prison discipline. It will accommodate con- 
veniently 350, but 900 have been incarcerated here. 

Besides Newgate there are in London and its environs 
eleven other prisons, viz. : — Cold-bath-fields, or house of 
correction ; Tothill-fields Bridewell, Westminster ; Giltspur- 
street Compter ; New Debtor's ; Clerkenwell ; Fleet ; King's 
Bench; Borough Compter; Surrey county Jail; New 
Bridewell ; and Millbank Penitentiary. Giltspur-street pris- 
on is used principally as a lodgment for vagrants and dis- 
orderly persons taken up in the night. The number thrown 
in there annually is upwards of 5,000. Besides the above- 
F2 



124 MENDICITY. 

named, there are several houses of correction, and sundry 
lock-up houses, as they are called. 

As pauperism is the great and fruitful source of low vice 
and of crime in London, it may be interesting here to give 
the following comprehensive extract on this subject : — 

" The number of persons relieved permanently in London on an av- 
erage of the three years, 1816-18-19, was 36,034 : occasionally, being 
parishioners, 81,282; total relieved, 117,316; so that the number of 
persons relieved from the poor-rates appears to have been nearly twelve 
in each 100 of the resident population — while the number relieved in 
1803 was nearly 7£ in each 100 ; and that, while the population has 
increased about one sixth, the number of parishioners relieved has ad- 
vanced from 7j to 11§ in each 100. The total of the money raised 
by the poor-rates was 679,284/., being at the rate of 13s. b\d. per 
head on the population, or 2s. 5d. in the pound, of the total amount 
of the sum of 5,603,057/., as assessed to the property-tax in 1815. 
The amount raised by the same rates in 1813 was 471,938/., being at 
the rate of 10s. 11^. per head. This, therefore, exhibits an increase 
of nearly one half in the amount of money raised to relieve paupers, 
and 2s. 6£d. on the rate per head on the population. This increase 
of pauperism has been marked by a decrease of friendly societies. 
The number of persons belonging to such societies appeared to be, for 
the three years 1817-18-19, nearly five in the 100 of the resident popu- 
lation ; a decrease, when compared with the abstract of 1803, of nearly 
3£ in each 100. 

" To cure or alleviate the evil of Mendicity and Vagrancy, the 
House of Commons promoted inquiries by a committee ; and the re- 
port developed such a body of evidence, as to ascertain, beyond all pos- 
sibility of doubt, the gross and monstrous frauds practised by mendi- 
cants in the capital, and in its immediate neighbourhood. 

"The following facts were ascertained : — That considerable sums of 
money have been found in the pockets and secreted in the clothes of 
beggars, when brought before magistrates ; that beggars make great 
profits by changing their clothes two or three times a day, and receiv- 
ing money which was intended for others ; and that a blind man with 
a dog has collected thirty shillings a day, and others from three shil- 
lings to seven, eight, and even more, per day. There are two houses 
in St. Giles's which are frequented by considerably more than two 
hundred beggars. There they have their clubs, and when they meet 
they drink and feed well, read the papers, and talk politics ! Nobody 
dares to intrude into their clubs except he is a beggar, or introduced 
by one ; the singularity of the spectacle would otherwise draw num- 
bers around them, which would hurt the trade. Their average daily 
collections amount to from three to five shillings, two shillings and 
sixpence of which, it is supposed, they each spend at night, besides 
sixpence for a bed. A negro beggar retired some time ago to the 
West Indies, with a fortune of 1,500/. Beggars have said they go 
through forty streets a day, and that it is a poor street that does not 
yield twopence ; and that it is a bad day that does not yield eight 
shillings and more. Beggars make great use of children in practising 
upon the feelings of the humane. Children are sent out with an order 



MENDICITY. 125 

not to return without a certain sum. One man will collect three, four, 
or five children from different parents, paying sixpence or ninepence 
for each during the day. Some children have been regularly let out 
by the day for two shillings and sixpence as the price of their hire ; a 
child that is shockingly deformed is worth four shillings a day, and 
even more. Before the Commons' Committee an instance was stated 
of an old woman who keeps a night school for the purpose of ' in- 
structing children in the street language.'' 

"Mr. Martin, a gentleman residing in Westminster, stated, as the 
result of his inquiries some years ago, the number of beggars about 
the metropolis to be 15,000. But the committee, from the evidence 
laid before them, conceived the number to be much larger. 

" Beggars evade the vagrant act by carrying matches, and articles 
of little intrinsic value, for sale. There is no form of distress which 
they do not assume, in order to practise upon the humanity of stran- 
gers. 

" In Mr. Martin's calculation, formed thirty years ago, there were, 
out of 15,000 beggars, 5,300 Irish, but Mr. Martin's estimate of the 
whole number is much under the facts of the present moment. Much 
pains were taken in 1815, by a remarkably humane gentleman, to 
ascertain the number of mendicants in London only, and the result 
was, that there were 6,876 adults, and 7,288 children, making the 
iotal of 14,164. 

" Mr. Martin's estimates of their numbers, and of the sums annu- 
ally extorted from the public by their importunities, follow : — 
Parochial individuals, .... 9,297 
Non-parochial, - - - - - 5,991 



Total (including 9,288 children) 15,288 
" The amount of sums gained by them was not estimated at a 
greater rate than what may be deemed absolutely necessary for the 
maintenance of such a body of people, although in beggary, and the 
succeeding low sums were accordingly fixed upon : — 
For 6,000 grown persons, at 6d. a day each, lodg- 
ing and clothes inclusive, - 54,750/. 
For 9,288 children, at 3d. per day, clothes in- 
clusive, 42,376/. 10 



Gross annual expense, - 97,126/. 10 0." 

A writer in the London Quarterly Review estimates that 
in Great Britain the paupers compose one sixth part of the 
whole population ; in Holland and Belgium, one seventh ; 
in Switzerland, one tenth ; in France and German Confed- 
eracy, one twentieth ; in Austria, Italy, Sweden, Denmark, 
and Portugal, one twenty-fifth ; in Prussia and Spain, one 
thirtieth. The number of paupers in all the poorhouses in 
the State of New- York on the 1st December, 1834, with a 
population of over 2,000,000, was only 6,457, including 1,977 
in the Almshouse of Ne-wYork City. Public relief was, 
however, extended in other forms, to 26,331 persons, but in 
general to a very moderate extent. Of these, more than 
half resided in the City of New- York. There is probably 
11* 



126 THE TONGUES. 

a greater proportion of paupers n the State of New- York 
than in any other state in the union, owing principally to its 
being a general rendezvous for foreigners. 



THE TONGUES AND A MIRACLE. 

In December, 1832, while I sat attending on divine ser- 
vice in the church of the Rev. Mr. Blunt, Chelsea, and the 
clerk was reading one of the lessons of the day, I was 
startled by what seemed to me a sudden and violent tran- 
sition of the reader's voice and manner from his previous 
unimpassioned tones, and not inappropriate elocution, into 
an elevated, loud, and astounding cry of alarm ! In a mo- 
ment the whole congregation were upon their feet, myself 
among the rest — all so quick that I did not observe the mo- 
tion, nor could I have believed it, but that I saw them and 
felt myself to be standing. What could be in the man ? — 
thought I. I looked at him, and his head was turned over 
his right shoulder, his face lifted towards the ceiling, and a 
continuous stream of the most startling and alarming excla- 
mations seemed to be pouring from his lips, in a perfect 
and overwhelming torrent, in the sharpest explosions of the 
highest falsette, or scream, and with all the power, of 
which the vocal organs of man might be supposed capable. 
All eyes were directed to the same quarter with his. Is it 
fire 1 thought I. I could see nothing of that, nor did the 
alarm seem to be of that import. The congregation hustled, 
the screams of women and children burst upon the scene, 
and the louder calls of men here and there intermingled 
and seemed to be demanding no one knew what — the start- 
ling and alarming voice of the chief speaker still above and 
distinct from the rest, drowning the general confusion and 
uproar, sharper and louder still, more earnest and impetu- 
ous, and still more alarming. What could it be ! I thought 
he seemed to see a vision — that he imagined the opening 
of the final judgment scene ! And all this was merely the 
enactment of the moment, and still continuing. The uproar, 
and screams, and firmer call from the voices of men, in- 
creased. W T omen sunk down and fainted in different parts 
of the church, and some rushed out into the street. The 
eye of the reader was still fixed in the same direction, and 
all this while I had imagined the alarming voice was his. 
But in looking for what he seemed to see, I discovered a 
man, apparently perched on the seat, with extended and 
brandishing arms, on the reader's right in the gallery, his 
visible organs of speech hard at work, and thereby demon- 



THE TONGUES. 127 

strating, that he was taking a conspicuous part, and was not 
■unlikely the author of this uproarous scene. As soon as 
the affrighted gentlemen near him had recovered sufficiently 
to think what could or ought to be done, a few hands seized 
upon the noisy stentor, and began to perform the office of 
ejecting him from the church. But nothing daunted, he 
screamed and roared the louder, and threw his hands and 
arms, like a maddened and exasperated pugilist, in every 
direction, to sweep his circle clean ; still pouring out his 
astounding cries. He was soon, however, in the hands of 
some men stouter than himself, who bore him along through 
the frightened crowd as fast as was convenient; but, by 
means of his own determination not to obey their motions, 
that was slow enough. He endangered all the heads and 
bonnets not a little that lay within the sweep of his arms, 
in his unwilling progress towards the door, and through the 
whole length of the church ; still crying out with greater 
and almost expiring effort. A more frantic madman, I 
should imagine, hardly ever exhibited a more frantic spec- 
tacle. And when passing the end of the gallery, where I 
happened to be, his cry was — " Judgment ! judgment ! judg- 
ment!" continuously, with all his powers, till he was out of 
the church, and I heard him in the street. 

He was a good-looking man, well dressed, and wore spec- 
tacles. When he was fairly ejected, the congregation be- 
gan to try to be composed. Some sat down, many went 
out, and the ladies and children, leaning and hanging on their 
parents, husbands, or brothers, left the church in no incon- 
siderable numbers. Some were too weak to go, and water 
and resuscitating drugs were brought to revive them. As 
fast as they recovered they retired. The service was re- 
sumed, every one in fear of faintings and hysterics. And 
they were not long disappointed, before a genuine and start- 
ling hysteric cry burst from a woman in the gallery, and she 
kept it up, though not so loud as the madman, yet scarcely 
less to the discomposure of the congregation, till she was 
fairly clear of the church. The sympathies of the assembly 
by this time were so completely beyond control, that a per- 
son of weak nerves could hardly endure the state of appre- 
hension that pervaded the common mass. The least symp- 
tom of fainting, and they were not unfrequent, became start- 
ling. In the middle of Mr. Blunt's sermon, another voice 
suddenly broke out from below. It proved, however, only 
another case of hysterics, and the woman was carried out. 
But the effect of it was frightful, when one looked upon the 
assembly, and saw so many faces whitened with fear. Not 
five minutes after, a young woman directly behind me fell 
into hysterics, and was carried out. And really, it seemed 
for the moment that the whole congregation, men and all, 
would go into hysterics. There were only three palpable 



128 A MIRACLE. 

cases, however. But there were very many apparent at- 
tempts at it. In the confusion of the first scene, after the 
author of this mischief was out, and before the people were 
seated, I perceived a lady by my side, pale and trembling, 
whom I thought I ought to know. She seemed to have 
come to me for protection. But her countenance was so 
entirely discomposed, although I was well acquainted with 
her, I was obliged to think hard before I could recognise her. 
" This is quite frightful, indeed, madam," said I. But the 
poor thing could not answer. She nodded assent, and tried 
to smile, but with an ill grace. Next I perceived her brother 
stood by her side : and I said — " I am glad you have such 
good company." 

And what was all this ? Why, it was a very benevolent 
attempt to edify us with an example of the " Tongues /" He 
was a clergyman, too, of the Church of England. And the 
fellow had been so shrewd in his calculations, and knowing 
the lessons for the day, that he interrupted the reader in the 
midst of the 23d chapter of the Acts ; so that when order 
was restored, and the service resumed, what should come 
first upon us but this : " If a spirit or an angel hath spoken 
to him, let us not fight against God." And thus this speaker 
of " unknown tongues" had his seal and " confirmation 
strong as proofs of holy writ." 

This poor deluded man was retained in custody, brought 
to examination on Monday, and being convicted under the 
statute against brawling in churches, was committed, as I 
understood, for want of bail. 

The young man had been attending that morning on the 
enactments of the Rev. Edward Irving, and as would seem, 
had become infected. I afterward heard that he proved to 
be thoroughly deranged, and that the calamity had plunged 
a respectable family and their connexions into the deepest 
affliction. 

A MIRACLE. 

Akin to this is the following miracle, which I was admit- 
ted to witness, in 1834 : — 

I ought perhaps to say, it was signified to me that the par- 
ties concerned expressed a wish that no pains should be 
taken to give the matter publicity ; by which I understood 
that they wished to avoid that kind of notice which would 
identify them in London with the Irvingites. The matter 
of course must have had a certain extent of notoriety, even 
there, as there were many witnesses of different classes, 
none of whom, I believe, were particularly enjoined to se- 
crecy. It had already been extensively known, as a period- 
ical event, although I never heard of it before. I trust I am 
not violating confidence in the record I here offer for so re- 



A MIRACLE. 129 

mote publication, nor rendering disrespect to the kind friends 
by whose civilities I was introduced to the scene. 

I hardly know what order of miracles this belongs to. 
The subject of it was a female about thirty years old. 
Some thirteen years ago, as is said, she received an injury 
which made her a helpless cripple for five years, the last 
three of which she was unable to move herself in bed. Her 
spine was irremediably injured, and one of her limbs thrown 
into such a condition of deformity, that her foot was brought 
and permanently lodged against her side under the shoulder. 
During the last year of this helplessness she had a dream, 
as is averred, accompanied with a supernatural vision and 
communication, by which she was certified, that if she 
should have faith to live through the following September, 
in the midst of extreme and excruciating suffering, she 
would be thoroughly restored on the 25th of March there- 
after, precisely at six o'clock P. M. Of course, as she was 
last year alive, it will be understood that she was enabled 
to fulfil the condition. And accordingly, on the 25th of 
March, precisely at six o'clock P. M., she was perfectly re- 
stored, and was able immediately to walk about, &c. The 
witnesses of all the facts, and of many details which I need 
not trouble my readers with, it is said, are abundant and 
now living, professional men and others. Indeed, I was 
gravely told by those who were my informers, that one of 
the professional men, who spoke disrespectfully of the mat- 
ter at the time, was visited in judgment, and has himself 
been a cripple ever since. 

But the most remarkable part of the story is, that on the 
anniversary of that day of healing, for every succeeding 
year, precisely at the hour of six o'clock P. M., March 25th, 
this individual has swooned away, and appeared to be dead ; 
but in a half an hour or so, exhibited the qjf mptoms of one 
asleep, with eyes half open, occasionally talking like one 
in sleep, or in a trance ; and has customarily continued in 
this condition of a perfect and thorough abstraction from sen- 
sible objects, conversing every now and then very religious- 
ly, and seeming to be a guest in heaven. It was averred that 
the medical profession had exhausted their skill and all their 
means in vain to rouse her ; and that for eight years suc- 
cessively she had remained each anniversary twenty-four 
hours to a minute in this sort of trance, discoursing every 
few minutes with great propriety, and to the edification of 
all present. When the clock has made the last stroke of 
six on the 25th of March, P. M. she swoons, and revives as 
regularly and precisely at the end of twenty-four hours. 
She manifests symptoms of approaching stupor an hour or 
two beforehand, which grows upon her till the moment ar- 
rives, and she is gone ; a few moments before the twenty- 
four hours have expired, she begins to show symptoms of 
F 3 



130 A MIRACLE. 

resuscitation, and at the exact time opens her eyes, and is 
well again. 

While I was dining with a friend, he mentioned this ex- 
traordinary case, said he was going to see it, and invited me 
to accompany him. We went ; but it happened we were in 
error as to the day, and instead of being there two hours 
before the resuscitation, it was two hours before the swoon- 
ing. Unexpectedly and against our wishes (for we were 
not prepared to desire it) we were ushered into the room of 
the lady herself, and introduced. She was at the house of 
a respectable surgeon, whose wife was her friend, and in 
whose family my companion was intimate. She was well 
dressed, and I should not, on an ordinary occasion, have no- 
ticed any thing remarkable in her appearance. It was 
hinted to us privately that we might stay and witness the 
swooning, which was confidently expected to occur in two 
hours, but we chose to be excused, and retired, promising 
to call the next day. Neither of us had faith in the matter ; 
and although we were willing, on account of the respecta- 
bility of those concerned, to see the woman in her supposed 
and alleged trance, we had thought her feelings would nat- 
urally be averse to be introduced to strangers while out of 
it, and so near the expected event. She was not, however, 
embarrassed, although she appeared somewhat absent and 
wandering in mind, from the expressions of her countenance. 
Not a word was said in the short interview of the subject 
which most occupied our thoughts. 

We called the following day in the afternoon, and to be 
sure, the woman was in her trance. She lay upon a bed, 
apparently asleep, attended by a sister, the surgeon's wife, 
her sister, and mother. They were taking notes of her com- 
munications, which were made regularly irregular, as in for- 
mer years. We were informed that she had " gone off," as 
it was called, precisely at the time expected, and had exhib- 
ited the same symptoms throughout as before. She lay and 
breathed like one asleep ; her eyes half closed, and winking 
incessantly ; every muscle in her frame entirely relaxed, so 
that her hand, lifted and dropped, would fall like that of a 
person just expired ; and she seemed totally insensible to 
every thing around. It was said and apparently believed, 
that no effort, not. even violence, could rouse her ; that in 
former years very severe, even cruel treatment had been 
tried by professional men, without producing any effect; 
that there was an entire cessation of the animal func- 
tions for the time being ; and that the application of the se- 
verest blisters had utterly failed of their effect, till after the 
expiration of the twenty-four hours, so that humanity re- 
quired that such experiments should not be repeated. It 
should be observed that in the efforts of making a commu- 



A MIRACLE. 131 

nication, the muscles were obedient to her will, and her 
hands were employed as well as her vocal organs. 

We had not been long in before she began to speak, 
in a soft and faint voice, it being her usual manner, her 
hands moving gently and slightly. It was something as fol- 
lows : — 

" Some are fearful as they approach the river (I imagined 
she meant the river of death) ; some go in with boldness ; 
some are filled with consternation ; but Christ is in the 
ship, and the believer is safe. This, perhaps, is the river 
of which Bunyan speaks. Some sink in the waves and are 
lost ; multitudes are lost. But the believer gets safely to 
the ship. There is the doubting Christian; he fears, he 
trembles ; but Christ is with him, and will take him in," &c. 

Her discourse ran upon Scripture, making very rational 
comments upon death, the judgment, eternity, and heaven. 
At one time she would seem to be in heaven, " a mortal 
among immortals," as she expressed herself. She addressed 
herself to God and Christ, not unbecoming the common 
forms of praise and adoration used in prayer. I heard her 
say, " I see Moses and Aaron, and all the prophets ; there 
is Paul, the persecutor ; and there is Peter, who thrice de- 
nied his Lord," &c. Once she said, " These are glorious, 
but thou, Lord, art more glorious than all." Most of the 
time she would seem to be enjoying visions of heaven, and 
spoke of it variously, but in simplicity, and without any ap- 
pearance of ecstatic emotion. Every thing she said is sug- 
gested in the Bible and in common religious reading ; but 
the allegorical strains of Bunyan rather prevailed. She had 
doubtless read the Bible and John Bunyan thoroughly. She 
was occupied in making her communications perhaps one 
fourth of the time — was slow and distinct, but used a uni- 
form and low voice. 

A medical man of considerable eminence in London, and 
of exemplary piety, was called in. He applied to the nos- 
trils a pungent solution of ammonia, which produced a 
manifest effect, suffused the eyes, and occasioned some 
muscular spasms ; but it was certainly well endured. The 
countenance exhibited some anxious expressions ; but still 
there was no universal shrinking from it. He applied his 
watch, as I thought, to the ear, and when he withdrew it, 
rather suddenly, he allowed the seals, which perhaps had 
some sharp points, to drag rudely over the nose, which oc- 
casioned a sudden motion of the head, as if to avoid it. He 
raised her eyelid, and brought a lighted candle suddenly be- 
fore it, and remarked that the pupil suffered a visible and 
instant contraction. He made no other experiments, and 
retired. 

Thus passed the day, with perhaps a dozen calls, or more, 
of some respectable individuals, about half of whom were 



132 PARLIAMENT HOUSES. 

Quakers. I and my friend were present, perhaps, in all two 
hours, at different times, being willing to satisfy ourselves 
what the thing might be. As the circle sympathizing with 
this young woman was very respectable, I feel bound to 
treat them with respect ; and I have no doubt that they fully 
believe what is told, first, of her physical and incurable in- 
firmities ; next, of her miraculous cure ; and consequently, 
believing that, they may easily believe that these periodical 
trances are unfeigned. I state the facts in substance as 
they came before me ; at the same time, it is proper for me 
to say, that I think the business an exceedingly well-planned 
and well-sustained imposture. And in this view it is as af- 
fecting as it is interesting. It is a very singular enactment, 
such a one as rarely takes place in society. The subject 
is of an obscure family, and has been taken up and cherish- 
ed by a number of respectable individuals and families who 
believe in her miraculous story. I had never heard of it be- 
fore, nor does it seem to make any noise in the world. 



THE BRITISH PARLIAMENT. 

Westminster Hall and Parliament Houses— Certain points of comparison 
between the British Parliament and the American Congress — Uses of 
the Purse and Mace — The Woolsack — Ministerial and Opposition sides 
— The Right Reverend Bench both right and wrong — The composition 
of the two Houses of Parliament— Parts of the day occupied in Ses- 
sion. 

And where is the place of the British Senate, in which 
Chatham, Pitt, Burke, Fox, Sheridan, and Canning delivered 
their opinions ? where Grey, Brougham, Peel, Stanley, 
O'Connell, and many others of note in debate, are now seen 
conspicuous 1 Where is that arena which has drawn to it 
the attention of the world, and on the decisions of which 
the fate of empires has depended 1 Surely, if the magnifi- 
cence of its physical be equal to that of its moral, it must be 
something worth seeing. 

Immediately on the north bank of the Thames (at this 
point it is the west bank, as the course of the river here is 
nearly north), a stone's throw above Westminster Bridge, 
and under the shade of Westminster Abbey, across Marga- 
ret-street — the latter being a continuation of Parliament and 
Whitehall streets — was situated an ancient pile, a proper 
heap of buildings, the first and most commanding of which, 
on the north, being the main body of the whole, is West- 
minster Hall, originally built by William Rufus in 1097-8, 
on the site of the Old Palace Yard, and repaired by Richard 
II. in 1397, making it substantially what it now is. 



PARLIAMENT HOUSES. 133 

This Hall is one of the largest rooms in Europe, unsup- 
ported by pillars, being 270 feet by 74, and in height 90. 
The roof is Gothic, adorned with carved angels, supporting 
the arms of Richard II. or those of Edward the Confessor ; 
as also is the stone moulding round the Hall. It has been 
the place of coronation fetes — used last for this purpose on 
the coronation of George IV. At a Christmas festival held 
there by Richard II., it is recorded that the number of 
guests on each day amounted to 10,000, and that it employ- 
ed 2,000 cooks. 

Both Houses of Parliament and their adjunct apartments 
were burnt to the ground on the night of the 17th of Octo- 
ber, 1834, and are now supplied by temporary structures. 
But it may not be amiss to notice them as they were. 

The buildings immediately adjoining Westminster Hall, 
on the south, were the Old Palace, which constituted the 
several apartments devoted to the uses of the House of 
Lords, including that which was more properly the Senate 
Chamber, and which was called the " House of Lords," as 
being the place of their meeting and public debates. This 
chamber was parallel with the great hall. Adjoining the 
great hall, at right angles, on the east, and running towards 
the river, was the House of Commons, which was built by 
King Stephen, as a sacred edifice, and dedicated to his name- 
sake Stephen, the first martyr — hence to this day called St. 
Stephen's Chapel. It was built of course in the twelfth 
century, rebuilt by Edward III. in the fourteenth century, 
who made it a collegiate church, causing to be installed over 
it a dean and twelve priests, and desecrated to its present use 
in the sixteenth century, by Edward VI. Both Houses of 
Parliament were small apartments, nearly equal in dimen- 
sions, and the farthest possible from having any show of 
magnificence. Nothing that I have seen has given me their 
length and breadth ; but I should judge about sixty feet by 
thirty-five. The House of Lords was lofty, and lighted by 
semicircular windows along the upper margin of the ceiling, 
without galleries, except a small one built in 1832 in the end 
fronting the throne and woolsack, for reporters, and suffi- 
cient to accommodate about one hundred spectators. About 
as many more spectators might possibly crowd around the 
bar below ; and the platform on which the throne was erect- 
ed was usually occupied, in a crowded houc>c, by the repre- 
sentatives of foreign courts and other privileged persons. 
On great occasions, such as the opening of parliament by 
the king, &c, temporary galleries were set up along the side 
walls to accommodate the families of peers and their friends. 
These galleries, and the seats of the peers below, were all 
covered with scarlet cloth. 

The throne was built in 1820, and consisted of a canopy 
of crimson velvet, surmounted by an imperial crown, and 
12 



134 PARLIAMENT HOUSES. 

supported by two columns, richly gilt, which were adorned 
with spiral wreaths of oak-leaves and acorns. On the ped- 
estals of the columns were tridents, olive-branches, and 
other emblems. 

The walls of this apartment were hung with a richly- 
wrought tapestry, representing the hostile lieets of England 
and Spain, at the time of the destruction of the Armada. 
The heads of the naval heroes who commanded on the oc- 
casion, formed a border around the work. Hence Chatham's 
reference in that lofty strain of protest and indignant repro- 
bation at the proposal in the House of Lords, to employ the 
native and barbarous tribes of North America in the contest 
with the colonies : " From the tapestry that adorns these 
walls, the immortal ancestor of the noble lord frowns with 
indignation at the disgrace of his country," &c. 

The floor of the House of Commons occupied by the 
members in debate was economically arranged with seats, 
or benches, covered with cushions, rising one above another 
from the little space left in the centre for the clerks' table 
and speaker's chair, where the house, when full, was as 
closely packed as possible. Indeed, I should not think it 
possible for all the members, 658, to have found seats, even 
by occupying the side galleries, which were appropriated 
to their use. The reporters and spectators were admitted 
only to the front gallery, except by special privilege, when 
there was room, " strangers," as all who are not members 
are called, were admitted by an order from the speaker be- 
hind the bar under the first gallery. The " bar" is a place 
of promiscuous and general rendezvous for members and 
strangers, where talking and confusion often arise, and oc- 
casion the call so frequently made in the house and by the 
speaker, "bar," " bar," which being interpreted, as I hardly 
need say, means, " order at the bar." I should not think it 
possible for either house, even by cramming, to admit more 
than 800 persons ; and in such case, I apprehend, there was 
little comfort for those who might have been there. 

On the west side of Westminster Hall, as part of the same 
pile, are the Courts of Chancery, Vice Chancery, Common 
Pleas, Exchequer, and King's Bench, which escaped the 
conflagration. These are entered from the hall — along the 
inside of the wall of which are seen over the door of each, 
the appropriate denomination of the court to which it opens. 
Indeed, the hall itself is a mere highway, in its common use, 
to the courts and to the houses of parliament — a lobby, the 
vestibule of the temple ; and the porch is infinitely greater 
and more magnificent than was the temple itself, and might 
almost have received the other parts on its own floor, as 
so many pieces of furniture. A stranger is struck with the 
magnificence of this entrance, and has Avondered at its ap- 
propriation to so vile a use, when he wandered in vain 



A CONTEMPT OF COURT. 135 

through endless labyrinths to find something worthy of such 
a beginning ; and behold all else was little and mean. 

Imagine a mountain with a family of shapeless hills thrown 
around its base — or a magnificent catacomb connecting it- 
self with a thousand meaner graves — all without form and 
void — and that is Westminster Hall, with its courts and 
Houses of Parliament, and committee-rooms, and confec- 
tionaries, and kitchens, and eating and smoking apartments, 
and the innumerable and devious channels of communica- 
tion, &c. &c. as they existed before the fire — all thrown to- 
gether in a heap, as if it were the only collection of inde- 
scribables ever put in juxtaposition without plan. And yet, 
place Westminster Hall by itself, divest it of its shapeless 
adjuncts, many of which are standing since the conflagra- 
tion, and it would have been a magnificent edifice ; but with 
ever so many things stuck on to it, in ever so many ways, 
for ever so many purposes, it was a vast pile of deformity. 

w Strangers" may be admitted at any time to the gallery 
of the House of Commons, while the house is in session, by 
a fee of half a crown to the doorkeeper, or by an order from 
a member. The original rules of the house, I believe, sup- 
pose the legislature always to be sitting with closed doors. 
The privilege of admission is winked at. The custom of 
reporting the business of Parliament in newspapers is an 
open breach of privilege, and is an instance of the silent 
legislation of public opinion over the sleeping statutes of a 
community. Reporters, or their employers, the responsible 
utterers of these fraudulent acquisitions, are not called to 
account, except for some disrespect to the house, or its 
members, or for some wilful injustice. Both houses bold 
the power in terrorem of calling offenders of this kind di- 
rectly to their bar, and of legislating and adjudicating on the 
case summarily at their discretion. They do not, however, 
often take occasion to employ it. The press is allowed to 
use great liberties, both with Parliament and individual mem- 
bers, without being noticed. 

The editor of the Morning Post was brought to the bar 
of the House of Lords during the session of 1834, for a 
contempt done to its judicial character in the person of the 
Lord Chancellor, by misrepresentation of the doings of the 
court ; and as the examination fully acquitted the house and 
its high officer before the public, the clemency of the court 
was extended to the editor by granting his discharge, after 
he had expressed his regret for the breach of privilege. 
The editor was supposed to be imposed upon by a secret 
communication with one of the peers, who had made an 
improper use of the records of the house, thereby impeach- 
ing the Lord Chancellor, or leading to his impeachment, in 
his high judicial functions. The article in the paper was 



136 AMERICAN CONGRESS. 

a tremendous assault, and for the moment created quite a 
sensation. It was an admirable opportunity for the Lord 
Chancellor (Brougham) to show his address in getting out 
of a difficulty, and to inflict a merited chastisement on his 
defamer. A pro forma record had been taken by the editor 
for a moral delinquency and a gross violation of official 
character. 

Access to the House of Lords can be obtained only by 
an order from one of the peers, which, however, is always 
readily granted to the extent of the privilege of members, 
to respectable persons on a suitable application. While 
important debates are in progress, it is more difficult to ob- 
tain admittance, and requires an early attendance. Stran- 
gers are always required to leave the house on a division — 
reporters included. The reporters depend upon private in- 
terviews with members to get what is done in their absence 
on a division, if it be not improper to be communicated. 

As in the legislative bodies of the United States, the upper 
house of the British Parliament is more dignified than the 
lower. In both Houses of Parliament, however, they are at 
liberty to sit with their hats on. I have never been in a 
senate or upper house of any one of the American states 
where this is practised. The Senate of the American Con- 
gress is altogether the most dignified body of the kind, 
whose deliberations I have ever attended ; and the House 
of Representatives, in some respects, is the farthest in the 
other extreme. It is true, they are not so uproarous as the 
British House of Commons. There are obvious reasons for 
these distinguishing features in both. 

In the lower House of the American Congress, the busi- 
ness is done before dinner ; every member has his desk, his 
stationary, and ample room to work. There he sits with 
his hat on ; reads his papers ; writes all his letters, seals 
and despatches them ; — in short, does all his business, as a 
correspondent and as a statesman, and redeems his time 
out of the house for society. The members walk about, 
assemble in groups, chat, and do any sort of business, in a 
manner as open and careless, as on a merchants' exchange 
in a commercial emporium — and that, too, while a member 
is making his speech, if it be not interesting and command- 
ing enough to claim attention. The speaker's rap on the 
desk and his call for order are mere matters of ceremony, 
and all goes on as if he had no authority. As they have no 
way of putting down a speech-maker in the House of Rep- 
resentatives of the American Congress, if they do not like 
him ; in other words, as he has as good a right to go through, 
whether heard or not, as a preacher has to finish his ser- 
mon without being interrupted, the grant of this privilege is 
purchased at the expense of allowing a corresponding 
right of inattention, if the members think they have any 



RIOT IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 137 

thing better to do. The Senate of Congress have also their 
desks, stationary, &c. ; but they are more respectful to each 
other. They take no liberties of associating in groups ; 
there is no buzz of conversation during a debate ; the mem- 
bers being few, two for each state, and when all are present 
cannot exceed forty-eight, and being for the most part men 
of a high order of talent, they seldom speak without atten- 
tion. 

The British House of Commons meet only for debate. 
Immemorial custom has decided, that he only shall occupy 
the time of the house who can command general respect. 
It is impossible to inflict a speech upon that body of any 
unreasonable length. They have ways of putting down 
which no man can resist. It is true this part of their duty 
has a somewhat undignified appearance, and occasionally 
runs into a complete riot. Take, for example, a part of a 
debate on motion of Mr. Wood, for the admission of dis- 
senters to equal privileges in the universities : — 

"Mr. G. W. Wood rose to reply. (The laughing, jeering, shouting, 
and coughing, were such as we never before witnessed.) The honour- 
able gentleman said, it had been declared that the bill in its present 
stage was essentially different from what it \yas when he had the hon- 
our to introduce it into the house. (At this moment two hon. members, 
1 o'er the ills of life victorious,'' suddenly entered from the smoking- 
room into the opposition gallery, and stretching themselves at full length 
on the seats, secure from the observation of the speaker, commenced a 
row of the most discreditable character.) This he denied. (In the gal- 
lery — ' / say, can't you crow V — laughter and uproar.') The provisions 
had not been altered — (' hear htm, how he reads !') the enactments were 
in every respect unaltered. (Loud cheering, followed by bursts of 
laughter.) The question was — (' Read it — read it V and great uproar.) 
the question (just so — read it) — the question (great cheering, and 
laughter) whether (' that's the question') — whether the universities 
should be open to all, or be for ever under the control of mere — 
(' Where's the man that crows V — Laughter, and cries of ' order V 
from the speaker). Public opinion (' dear ." — and great uproar, 
during which the speaker, evidently excited, was loudly calling for 
order. The scene here was indescribable.)" — A London paper. 

This, indeed, is rather an extraordinary case ; but it can- 
not be denied that it is a case in point, and a striking illus- 
tration. Besides the bad appearance and want of dignity in 
such noisy and riotous proceedings, injustice is often done 
to individuals. 

It may even be, in some cases, an insuperable obstacle to 
the making of men, who, but for this most formidable ordeal, 
would rise and distinguish themselves in the state ; but being 
modest and sensitive, they have not the moral courage to 
encounter and bear down such an onset. But with all its 
(evils, it may be questionable, at least, whether it is not 
12* 



138 MANNER OF PUBLIC DEBATES. 

preferable to that great waste of time, which speeches, 
made for newspapers and for constituents, cost a nation. 

It will not be understood that the above specimen is a 
common mode of putting down a speaker. That was out- 
rageous — barbarous. The usual methods are— general un- 
easiness ; moving; coughing; going out; calling for the 
"question;" and if these hints are not sufficient, an in- 
crease of tumult, amid cries of " order," &c, until the voice 
of the speaker is drowned, and he is obliged to stop. If 
there is a general disposition to put him down, he might as 
well speak against an ocean tempest. 

Audible expressions, either of approbation or disappro- 
bation, are rarely heard in American legislative assemblies 
during their debates. Public opinion is against it. They 
sometimes occur at popular meetings of a political charac- 
ter; but never at the gravest deliberations. In England 
they are heard at all meetings of a deliberative kind : in 
Parliament, at the hustings, at public dinners, and even at 
the anniversaries of benevolent and religious societies — 
everywhere, and on all occasions open for public discus- 
sion. Hear ! hear ! yes ! yes ! no ! no ! shame ! shame ! 
clapping ; stamping ; scraping ; hissing, and antagonist 
cheering ; groans ; and all manner of modes to express 
satisfaction or dislike. It is the spontaneous expression 
of the feelings of the moment. The hearers take part with 
the speaker, and persons in a remote part of a large assem- 
bly will not unfrequently cry out, and give utterance to 
some short sentence, with which there may, or may not, 
be the manifestation of a general sympathy. When the 
speaker is universally and loudly cheered, he must pause 
till it dies away ; if he is generally rebuked, he may be 
obliged to sit down. 

All this is witnessed in Parliament, especially in the 
House of Commons. The House of Lords is a more 
grave assembly, and it seldom goes beyond monosyllabic 
expressions, and those not often in a general cry. But 
cheering and rebuking speakers in deliberative assemblies 
are the habit of the nation, and are as sure to occur as a 
man gets up to make a speech. Sometimes it is not very 
befitting. I once witnessed it when it was absolutely 
shocking. It was at a meeting of the friends of Sunday 
Schools at Exeter Hall, when a speaker very properly and 
eloquently ascribed the prosperity of the institution to the 
blessing of God, and took occasion to express a high degree 
of emotion, which he appeared to feel in unison with this 
idea, by quoting a passage of Scripture, big with the sub- 
limest sentiments of devotion in a proper doxology — " Not 
unto us, not unto us, O Lord, but to thy name be all the 
glory !" and instantly the whole assembly burst into a loud 
shout of applause ! and that, too, when it was evident the 



THE SEALS AND MACE WOOLSACK. 139 

speaker had not concluded. It was, I suppose, an involun- 
tary echo of the sentiment expressed; but few, I think, 
would be prepared to say, it was very suitable. 

In the House of Commons I have heard long-continued 
and most deafening cheers, when every voice appeared to 
join, with all its powers. In such cases of universal and 
powerful sympathy, uttered in such a manner, the effect 
is very thrilling and intoxicating. It is the voice of accla- 
mation, "like the sound of many waters." I question 
whether there is another assembly in the world where this 
expression is given so powerfully as in the British House 
of Commons. And I hardly need say, after the example 
quoted above, from the scene enacted on that occasion, 
that they are no less accomplished in doing discordances, 
and administering most ungracious incivilities on each 
other, when they happen to be in the humour of it. 

When the Lord Chancellor enters the House of Lords to 
open the sitting, he is preceded by the bearer of the seals 
and mace, who lays them down when his lordship has 
arrived at the woolsack, and the chaplain reads prayers. 
In the same manner the mace (" that bawble," as Crom- 
well called it, when he entered that chamber with his 
troops, and said, " Take away that bawble") is borne before 
the Speaker of the Commons, and laid upon the table, as 
the signal for the chaplain to commence his duty. Like 
the two houses of the American Congress, the British Par- 
liament, for the most part, contrive to dispense with the 
prayers, and come in afterward. 

"The woolsack 1" — is the moderator's seat. The Lord 
Chancellor is ex officio president of the House of Lords. 
His seat, I presume, was originally a sack of wool ; and, for 
aught I know, it may be so now. An American may have 
some idea of it, by having his attention directed to a bag 
of cotton. It is not so large, but very like it ; and is laid 
across the room in front of the throne, being covered with 
scarlet cloth, like the other furniture of the room. As 
moderator of the house the Lord Chancellor occupies this 
place ; in his judicial capacity he sits in a chair. Among 
the many representations of Lord Chancellor Brougham 
exposed in the picture-shops, was a cheap one, exhibiting 
him in this chair, leaning forward, with his spectacles in 
one hand, and saying very characteristically to a counsellor, 
whose argument might often be cut short to the profit of all 
concerned, " Yes, I see, sir — I see — it comes to this." 

By general consent in both houses, the ministers and 
their supporters occupy the side of the house on the right 
of the speaker, and the opposition on his left. Of course, 
when there is a change of government, by the ascendency 
of the opposition to power, the two great parties change 



140 COMPOSITION OF THE TWO 

sides — the party out, being by the change constituted the 
opposition, go over to the left of the speaker, and the party 
intrusted with the government, to the right. The minis- 
ters take the front seat, which for this reason is called the 
" Treasury Bench." 

" The Right Reverend Bench" does not change with the 
change of ministry ; but always remains on the speaker's 
right— over his shoulder, behind the treasury bench. Why 
it remains stationary there in the ups and downs of parties, 
I do not know — unless, being " ministers of peace," they 
are supposed to be of no party. Until the Reform govern- 
ment was created, they had generally been ranked politi- 
cally on the side of the ministry, and of course were in the 
right, in two senses at. least : first, being on the speaker's 
right ; and next, in their own society. In a reformed Par- 
liament, assuming that they think with the opposition on 
political questions, as they generally do — they are, notwith- 
standing, and however paradoxical it may seem, both on 
the right and wrong side, in the view of Reformers. 

When a boy at school, I used often to recite that favour- 
ite speech of Chatham — with me a favourite— in which, 
pleading the cause of the North American colonists against 
the employment of the Indians in the war, he turns and says, 
" I appeal to that Right Reverend Bench — those holy min- 
isters of our religion ;" and I imagined they had some ex- 
alted place by themselves. When I first entered the House 
of Lords in session, I looked for " that Right Reverend 
Bench." There could be no mistake ; and yet it was not ex- 
alted, as I had imagined, but down upon the same level with 
all the rest. The white robes and sacerdotal lawn are an indu- 
bitable mark to the stranger of the place of the lords bishops. 
Other members, except the Lord Chancellor and the clerks, 
appear in their usual every-day and out-of-door garb, and sit 
with their hats on or off, as they please. With this ex- 
ception in regard to hats, if it must be reckoned one, the dig- 
nity of the House of Lords, so far as I am a witness, or am 
otherwise acquainted, is well sustained. This cannot al- 
ways be said of the House of Commons. 

The composition, or elements of the two Houses of Par- 
liament, are as follows : — 

There are five classes of peers in Great Britain : 1. Peers 
of England ; 2. Peers of Scotland ; 3. Peers of Ireland ; 4. 
Peers of the United Kingdom ; and, 5. Peers of the Episco- 
pal Bench. All Peers of England are entitled to seats in the 
House of Lords ; so also those of the United Kingdom, though 
their locality be Irish or Scotch. Every peerage, it should 
be remarked, has a locality, though the possessor of the dig- 
nity may belong to another part of the empire. There is a 
sort of double peerage — that is, Peers of England sometimes 
ihold an equal or superior rank ;n the peerages of Scotland 



HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT. 



141 



and Ireland. If superior, courtesy addresses them by the 
higher dignity, but they hold their seats in the House of 
Lords as Peers of England, or under title of the inferior 
rank. The peerages of Ireland and Scotland are entitled to 
a place in the House of Lords only by representation, which 
is limited — for Ireland to twenty-eight ; for Scotland to six- 
teen. The representatives of the Irish peerages are chosen 
for life ; those of the Scotch for the duration of the Parlia- 
ment. The two archbishops and the twenty-four bishops 
of England are peers in right of certain ancient baronies 
which they are supposed to hold under the king. The 
Bishop of Sodor and Man has no seat in Parliament. One 
of the archbishops and three of the bishops of the Irish Prot- 
estant Church sit in the House of Lords in annual rotation. 
The rights of peers by creation do not descend to their pos- 
terity, unless so specified in the patent : this belongs only 
to the ancient peerages. 

The composition of the House of Lords, at the beginning 
of 1834, stood thus : — 



Princes of the blood royal (all dukes) 

Other dukes 

Marquesses 

Earls . 

Viscounts 

Barons 

Peers of Scotland . 

Peers of Ireland 

English Bishops 

Irish Bishops 

Total, 



4 
21 

19 

110 

18 

180 

16 

28 

26 

4 

426 



The number of lay lords may be increased by creation at 
the will of the king. 

The number of the House of Commons is the same under 
the Reform Act as before, viz. 658 ; but the constituency has 
been very essentially extended. Before the passage of the 
Reform Bill, this branch of the legislature was constituted as 
follows : — 



For 40 Counties in England ... 80 knights 

25 Cities ....... 50 citizens 

167 Boroughs 334 burgesses 

5 do. one each ... 5 do. 

2 Universities, Oxford and Cambridge 4 do. 

8 Cinque Ports 16 barons 

12 Counties in Wales ... 12 knights 

12 Boroughs in Wales .... 12 burgesses 

12 Counties in Scotland ... 30 knights 



142 



COMPOSITION OF PARLIAMENT. 



12 Boroughs in do. 
32 Counties in Ireland 
12 Boroughs in do. 



Total, 



15 burgesses 
64 knights 
36 burgesses 

658 



The House of Commons, under the Reform Act, is con- 
stituted as follows : — 



English County Members 
Universities 
Cities and Boroughs 
Welch County Members 
Welch Cities and Boroughs 
Scotch County Members 
Scotch Cities and Boroughs 
Irish County Members 
Irish University of Dublin 
Irish Cities and Boroughs . 



... 


. 143 


. 


4 


... 


. 324 




15 


. • . 


. 14 


. , 


30 


. , . 


. 23 


. . 


64 


• • . 


. 2 


. , 


39 



Total, 



658 



Of the House of Commons, as it stood at the beginning of 
1834, the members were of the following classes : — 

Holding Commissions in the Army 
" do. in the Navy 

Lawyers 

Persons in Trade ...... 

Literary Men 

Of no Profession 



Total, 



658 



The radical change in the principles of the elective fran- 
chise, and the consequent extension of the constituency to 
comprehend the middle classes of the community, and leav- 
ing them free to choose whom they will from whatever 
rank in society, brought into the reformed House of Com- 
mons, to a great extent, very different elements from those 
which composed it under the old regime. It is more dem- 
ocratic. Notwithstanding, however, such is the influence 
of the aristocracy of the country, that 186 of the members 
of the House of Commons in 1834, that is, in the last Par- 
liament, were immediately connected with the peers. The 
component parts of the House of Commons are liable to 
frequent change from death, promotion, and the various 
fluctuations of society with which they are connected ; and 
the places vacated are filled by new elections. 

The House of Lords opens as a court of appeals in the 



THE MONARCHY. 143 

morning, at such hour as the Lord Chancellor appoints, and 
the business is done principally by him. Five o'clock in 
the afternoon is the usual hour of assembling for legislative 
business, and they adjourn at such time of night as may be 
convenient. When interesting and important debates oc- 
cur, they are apt to sit late — sometimes till morning. 

The House of Commons used formerly to meet at four 
P. M., and be prepared for business and for the admission 
of strangers at five ; but in 1833 they established a new reg- 
ulation, to meet and do the lighter business of the house 
from twelve to three ; to assemble again at five, and adjourn 
as might be convenient. They more frequently sit late than 
the House of Lords — the average hour of adjournment is 
perhaps not far from twelve o'clock ; often at one and two ; 
sometimes they debate all night. There are eating and 
coffee rooms connected with the house in adjoining apart- 
ments, to which members and strangers can retire at any 
time for refreshments ; and as appears by the extract from 
a London paper, page 137, there is a smoking-room too. It 
may seem to a stranger in the gallery of the House of Com- 
mons, when debate is dull, and no important vote immedi- 
ately pending, that the members are nearly all absent ; but 
the moment a clever speaker is up, or a vote of importance 
is about to be called for, a rush is made from the various 
adjacent apartments, and in five minutes the house is full. 



THE MONARCHY AND ARISTOCRACY. 

The principal and controlling elements of English society— A European 
Monarchist and an American Republican— British Law above the King 
— History of the British Monarchy — Its social influence in connexion 
with the Court — Courts corrupt — They corrupt Society — Expense of 
the British Monarchy — Listtof the Royal Family— The Aristocracy. 

I am satisfied, that the state of society in Great Britain 
cannot be understood by foreigners, without the process of 
analysis and composition. It is very obvious that the mon- 
archy stands first in the list of the principal elements. I 
was going to say, that every Briton is a monarchist ; but I 
remember, that a Scotchman once told me in London, with 
a very significant and positive air, " Sir, we are republicans 
in Scotland,'" I suppose, however, that he meant to say, 
The reformers of Scotland are republicans ; alias, radicals. 
If we might judge from the developments of a dinner given 
to Lord Durham at Glasgow, in 1834, they would seem to 
be a confirmation of the latter proposition, if not of the 
former ; and many think there is no great distance between 



144 ELEMENTS OF BRITISH SOCIETY. 

them. Certainly, British radicals are generally believed by 
their opponents to be republicans ; and since Lord Durham 
has taken rank among them, they have lost some five sixths 
or nine tenths of their want of respectability ; and he, at 
least, is an undoubted lover of monarchy. A little more 
leaven of this kind will give to that party no mean impor- 
tance ; and if the Conservatives do not conduct themselves 
very prudently, some man like Lord Durham, or his lord- 
ship himself, will not unlikely, ere long, be at the head of 
the government, and Daniel O'Connell among them for the 
pacification of Ireland. 

As a general truth, Britons are stanch monarchists, and 
are likely to remain so for an indefinite period, if having a 
chief magistrate under the name of king entitles them to 
that appellation, and so long as the royal prerogatives are 
under such popular control, and can be kept in such check, 
as the present state of the British constitution admits. The 
King of Great Britain has not at this moment so much power 
as the President of the United States. 

There are, however, features and prerogatives of the Brit- 
ish monarchy of a truly regal character, important to be 
considered, as an element of society, and without a knowl- 
edge of which we cannot understand the state of society in 
Great Britain. 

Next in importance to the monarchy, or as a collateral 
and co-ordinate element, is the aristocracy. They are both 
indispensable to each other ; they are both primary and 
capital ; they are the oldest, highest, and yet the most in- 
fluential elements of the British constitution, notwithstand- 
ing their power has been recently abridged ; they are at the 
foundation and at the top ; they are the great and principal 
timbers of the fabric ; they constitute the imposing features 
of its architecture ; they are the rich and splendid furniture 
of the house ; they are, in a word, those parts, without which 
British society would no longer be British. 

The hierarchy and the church, as established by the state, 
are as old as the monarchy — yes, older ; as venerable as the 
aristocracy, and, I had almost said, the parent and protector 
of both. But the reformation from Popery reduced that 
mighty and colossal spiritual power, which had been accus- 
tomed to set its foot on the necks of kings — which forced 
all earthly princes to do it reverence, and to acknowledge 
their dependance. But still the Church of England, in her 
hierarchy, if not the protectress of the monarchy, is its 
spouse — is wedded to the throne. She gives counsel in the 
ear of majesty; she superintends the entire pupilage of the 
princes and princesses of the blood, and has the formation 
of their character ; she has her chaplains in every noble 
family ; her bishops are lords, and ex officio legislators ; her 
clergy are magistrates ; she has control of the universities ; 



THE MONARCHY. 145 

she imposes numerous practical and important civil disabil- 
ities on all dissentients from her creed ; and withal, she is 
endowed with great wealth. English society could never 
be understood, leaving out of view this spiritual and influ- 
ential element. 

The Commons of Great Britain, nominally the third es- 
tate of the realm, their modes of organization and their 
power in connexion with the people, their recent ascenden- 
cy and prospective influence, are interesting and important 
to be considered. 

The religion of Great Britain — of the established Church 
of England and Ireland ; of the Kirk of Scotland ; of the 
dissenting sects in south and north Britain ; of the Roman 
Church ; and of their separate action and combined influ- 
ence on the popular mind ; — all these are matters of great 
practical importance in the constitution of British society. 
And next in importance to religion is education in the for- 
mation of national character. 

The unequal division of property, with its causes and in- 
fluence ; the vast amount of poverty and wretchedness, and 
the causes of them ; the commercial spirit and trading char- 
acter of Great Britain; her political importance and national 
pride ; her wealth, apparent and real ; her social influence 
in the world ; customs and manners at court, among the no- 
bility and gentry, among the common people, and many 
other things that might be named — all have to do in the con- 
stitution of society. 

A subject of any other of the monarchies of Europe, on 
visiting England, and examining the machinery of society 
as it exists there, in that part of his inquiries which respects 
government, has only to compare the monarchy he has left 
behind with the one he is now looking at, or the latter with 
such as he may happen to be acquainted with, and to esti- 
mate the difference. He will not unlikely be amazed that 
a monarchy can be so mild, and the subjects of it enjoy so 
much liberty, as in England. There he will find the utmost 
liberty of speech and of the press ; security of person and 
property against the encroachments of arbitrary power ; a 
right to do what a man pleases, if he does not violate the 
rights of his neighbour, as fixed and defined by law for com- 
mon good. No one is afraid of the king — not even the 
poorest. If he has done wrong, he may be afraid of the 
law ; if he has a good conscience, he knows the law stands 
between him and the king, and will be his protection. 

For example : In 1708, a Russian ambassador, then resi- 
dent at the court of Queen Anne, was arrested in a street 
of London, and taken out of his coach into custody of the 
Sheriff of Middlesex, for the sum of £50, which he owed 
to a tradesman. The czar demanded of the queen, as an 
G 13 



146 THE MONARCHY. 

atonement for this insult to his ambassador, that the sheriff 
and all concerned in this arrest should be put to instant 
death. To which the queen replied — " That she could in- 
flict no punishment on the meanest of her subjects, unless 
warranted by the law of the land." It was owing to this 
incident that an act of parliament was passed to exempt for- 
eign ministers and their servants from arrests, a copy of 
which, elegantly engrossed and illuminated, was sent to 
Moscow by the hand of an extraordinary ambassador, as 
the only satisfaction that could be rendered. A century and 
a quarter from that time has only increased the influence 
and protection of law in Great Britain. 

But, while the stranger from the continent is surprised at 
the liberty and privileges enjoyed by the subjects of the 
British monarchy, the American wonders that Britons should 
be contented with any monarchy at all. These two indi- 
viduals approach the same subject from different quarters, 
and with views and feelings totally different. The European 
sees the faults got rid of, while the American looks at those 
which remain. The former wonders how so much of the 
natural sternness and severity of monarchy could be melted 
down into such comparative mildness ; while the latter im- 
agines, that behind the external symbols and pomp of roy- 
alty there lurks some awful power, that may, perad venture, 
do mischief. At least the American " calculates''' that these 
things are unnecessary ; especially, that the annual cost of 
.£1,428,571, or 6,857,140 dollars, which was the average 
amount of the civil list from the beginning of the reign of 
George III. to the end of that of George IV., a period of 
seventy years, is "pretty considerable''' 1 in comparison of the 
25,000 dollars, or .£5,200, which is annually the cost of sup- 
porting the President of the United States ; and other ex- 
penses of the two nations in like proportion. If it is indeed 
true, that the American republican magnifies the undesirable 
attributes of the British monarchy, and thinks he sees some 
that have no existence ; it is equally true that the European 
advocate of monarchy is blind to many of the evils even of 
the government of Great Britain, and makes too little ac- 
count of those he actually discerns. 

The British monarchy was founded by William the Con- 
queror, in 1066. The other two estates of peers and com- 
mons were afterward formed, and successively confirmed in 
their influence, by the resistance of the nobles and people 
to the power of the monarch, and by their united claims for 
concession. The stamp which William the Conqueror gave 
to society in Great Britain, as the effect of that monarchical 
influence which he established — and which in him, and in 
some of his successors, was the power of an absolute des- 
pot — remains to this hour in certain of its essential forms 
and prerogatives. The monarchy has indeed received vari- 



THE MONARCHY. 147 

ous modifications in the shapes of limitation and constitu- 
tional restraint ; the king himself has been made the subject 
of constitutional law; but the original features of monarchy, 
bating a despotic and absolute sway, are as distinct and vis- 
ible as is the artificial tracery on any of the relics of anti- 
quity to be found in those isles. With Britons, for the most 
part, this is no objection — but rather the object of their com- 
placency. 

" It was the excessive power of the king," says De Lolme. 
" that made England free" — a singular doctrine, but no less 
true. And he gives his reason — " because it was this very 
excess that gave rise to the spirit of union, and of concerted 
resistance." It may be added — It was this very excess 
which made the United States of North America free and 
independent — independent of that very monarchy, the praises 
of which De Lolme had sung before this event occurred. It 
appears that England could inflict such injustice on her 
American colonies, notwithstanding that her constitution was 
so corrected and so guarded against the encroachments and 
use of arbitrary power. In England the march of freedom, 
of which De Lolme speaks, had gone no farther than to ef- 
fect a union between the nobility and the people for the pur- 
pose of checking and limiting the powers of the monarch at 
home ; and De Lolme imagined he found — more properly 
affected* to have found — the consummation of liberty and of 
all desirable privileges in the British Constitution, as estab- 
lished and confirmed in the three estates of the realm, king, 
lords, and commons, in their reciprocal action and popular 
bearings. 

After what has recently been done — and as is thought 
with good reason — to amend the British Constitution, I need 
not undertake to expose its defects. I have in view only to 
notice the influence of the British monarchy as a chief and 
elementary power on British society ; and this is immense. 

First, by its constitutional bearings. What is a body 
without a head ? It is like the British Constitution lopped 
of the monarchy. As the head of the body is above all, 
sees for all, and guides all, so the British monarchy rests on 
the shoulders of the body politic, and by its vested authority 
gives counsel and executes law for the whole frame of so- 
ciety. It is the represented majesty of the nation ; it is a 
co-ordinate in the office of legislation, with the additional 
power of the Veto ; and it holds all law in its hand. Under 
constitutional limitations, however, its authority is vested 

* Affected to have found. De Lolme wrote his " Constitution of Eng- 
land" to secure patronage in high quarters, and his praise is excessive and 
unqualified. He wrote to support a theory, and not to deduce one. With 
a knowledge of these facts, and with this abatement, he is worthy of as 
much praise for his discriminating, thorough, and philosophic observations 
on the British Constitution, as he has bestowed on that instrument. 
G 2 



148 THE MONARCHY. 

and responsible, not independent or absolute. The doctrine 
that the king can do no wrong is a fiction ; practically, how- 
ever, except in the choice of his advisers, the responsibility 
of government rests on them, and not on him. 

The court is at the head of society, itself a society of 
prescriptive rights and exclusive privileges, enjoying munif- 
icent provisions at the public expense, and devoting itself 
to an uninterrupted round of pleasure corresponding with 
those vast expenditures, which are appropriated for the 
maintenance of royalty. It is a splendid pageant, always in 
a glitter within its own circle, making occasional public 
demonstrations merely for stage effect on the popular mind. 

The chief influence of the court is, that it is the pattern 
of manners, and naturally the fountain of morals. The rev- 
erence for monarchy, which has so long obtained in Great 
Britain ; the intimate connexions of all parts of the empire 
with the metropolis ; the ascendency of the court over the 
latter ; the wealth and independence of a numerous nobility, 
and other privileged classes, planted in every part of the 
United Kingdom, and exerting a supremacy of influence in 
their respective spheres, which comprehend all and every 
thing ; the nobility themselves, in various ways and by many 
ties connected with the court and bound to the throne ; all 
looking with the greatest respect to what is allowed to be 
the highest region of society in the empire, and forming their 
manners by the models which are there set up, it cannot be 
otherwise than that the court and its circles should be a pat- 
tern for all. London is the centre of the British empire, do- 
mestic and foreign ; in society the court is the centre of Lon- 
don ; and all that is imitable there in manners and customs 
is most assiduously and obsequiously copied among all 
ranks. In some things the manners of the court may be 
very good ; in others they are certainly inconvenient ; in 
many things extravagant, not simply in regard to expense, 
but propriety ; they are often unnatural, and alike unfriendly 
to health and morals ; many are ridiculous ; — but there is no 
resisting their influence. 

I will give an example of the inconvenient and the ridicu- 
lous, that becomes so in common society. Fetes or entertain- 
ments at the table are necessarily so frequent at court and 
among the higher ranks, and dinners so extravagant and cer- 
emonious, that in process of time — I know not when — the 
dejeune a la fourchette, alias a breakfast with meat, alias an 
apology for a dinner, came into fashion to save the trouble 
of a regular dinner. When lo ! through all ranks of English 
society public breakfasts are, perhaps, the most common so- 
cial entertainments! With the nobility and gentry, who 
have no demands of business to occupy them, it is a conve- 
nience, and much better, no doubt, than to have what is 
called a dinner. It is with them in fact a dinner, though at 



THE MONARCHY. 149 

an earlier hour of the day ; but with common people it is not ; 
it is taken at the hour of breakfast, and is a breakfast. It has 
always seemed to me an inconvenient and ridiculous aping 
of a custom in the higher ranks. The custom, however, is 
established, and appears to be liked. The copy and the ori- 
ginal are so unlike, that people who never inquire into such 
things probably have no idea of their relation to each other. 

Manners and customs, in which people pride themselves, 
descend ; and if they are bad, vice goes with them, begetting 
an innumerable offspring. With the English the authority 
of example in such matters is Gospel. " High life below 
stairs 11 is an English proverb, at least in form ; and it may 
be taken as a figure to illustrate the history of English 
manners in all the grades of descent from the court down 
through the various ranks of the nobility, the gentry, and 
commonalty, to those who are actually " below stairs" in 
the houses of tradesmen. Every one is studious, not to 
say conscientious (for sensibility on this subject is almost 
as tender and quick as conscience), in avoiding the peculi- 
arities of those who are below him ; and there is no inter- 
ruption in the scale of this connexion and influence from 
the menials of the lower menials to the menials of him 
who occupies the throne. 

In many particulars the manners of high life in England 
are exemplary and worthy of imitation. In the higher cir- 
cles of English society, when it happens to be pure — and it 
is pleasant to know that this is extensively the case — there 
is nothing on earth more pure. The order of a well-regu- 
lated English family in the higher ranks, where wealth has 
afforded every opportunity of intellectual and moral culture, 
and where religion presides over the scene, and purifies the 
atmosphere, presents one of the finest spectacles of the 
social state which this world can furnish. The refine- 
ments of civilization in England, take them all in all as the 
civilization of Christianity, have undoubtedly afforded finer 
specimens of human society, and on a larger scale, than any 
other nation ancient or modern. 

But the peculiar temptations to which the sons of the 
noble and the wealthy are exposed, by some grand defects 
in society which as yet have found no remedy, and the cor- 
rupt manners of the metropolis, and of a pleasure-hunting 
and venal court, too often bring a dark cloud over the pros- 
pects of families, and of extensive circles of connexions, 
which otherwise gave promise of social happiness, that 
might indeed seem enviable for an earthly state. But not- 
withstanding these disadvantages, and the consequent sub- 
tractions from the greatest beauty and happiness of society, 
civilization in England, under the benign influences of Chris- 
tianity, has been gradually urging its advances, till all that 
is most desirable on earth would seem to be brought within 
13* 



150 THE MONARCHY. 

reach of the hand of man, and the cup of the highest earthly 
felicity raised to his lips only to be dashed from the grasp 
of fruition for want of that pure state of public morals, which 
is indispensable to such an attainment in general society. 

The courts of kings have ever been corrupt, and they are 
still corrupt. The manners and morals of courts are fatal 
to domestic happiness, and consequently to the happiness 
of society. How can it be otherwise, so long as they are 
provisioned by the state only to pursue a perpetual round 
of pleasure ] George IV. of England claimed to be the first 
gentleman, and earned the credit of the greatest libertine, in 
Europe. And notwithstanding his supposed accomplish- 
ments in the first of these characters, it has been said and is 
believed, that the allied sovereigns and their suites, while 
on a visit to England after the overthrow of Napoleon, 
made themselves sport with the manners of the King of 
England ; and that the wags of their train called him a 
clown. The natural sons of William IV. have been raised 
to the dignities of the peerage, and have officiated in high 
stations of the royal household ! And one of them, Lord 
Adolphus Fitzclarence, accompanied the Queen of England 
to Germany in the summer of 1834, as the chief and imme- 
diate attendant on her person ! I was in one of the boats 
that accompanied the queen to the mouth of the river 
Thames, and saw him in the discharge of these duties during 
the day. What must be the state of morals at a court, that 
would not blush at this ! What the sense of morals with a 
government, that would so exalt and dignify these individu- 
als, and make them so conspicuous before the public ! 
What the sense of morals in a community, that would not 
raise one loud and long note of remonstrance, till it should 
be heard and make an impression to answer its design! 
Indeed, it is not unlike the proclamation of a bounty on 
crime! Such, undoubtedly, is its influence. The public 
reception of these doings shows, that what originates in a 
court and is tolerated there, though it be a scandal, is too 
apt to be tolerated in general society. 

" Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, 
That to be hated, needs but to be seen ; 
But grown too oft famdiar with her face, 
We first endure, then pity, then embrace." 

But if vice be offered to a people by the example of the 
highest authority in the community, with a premium to 
boot, alas ! it is not the only evil, immense and incalculable 
as it is in such a matter, that the design of society to present 
motives to virtue is reversed ; but vice, in its nakedness and 
under its own proper name, is placed in the ascendant — is 
enthroned, while virtue lies dishonoured, maimed, and bleed- 
ing under its feet ! In such a case vice is not ".a monster f 



AND ARISTOCRACY. 151 

it has no "frightful mien;" it will not be "hated at the 
sight ;" but it is decked with charms ; it is legalized ; it is 
recommended by authority, and by that authority to which 
all men look for example ! There is a high family now 
before the British community, and a married daughter of 
that family, envied of her sex for her charms, as report pro- 
claims, has been deserted by her husband, who has taken 
in her place the widow of his wife's father, and appears 
habitually with her in public ! But this is only an instance. 

" The numerous adulteries committed in the higher circles 
of fashionable life," says an appeal to the bishops and digni- 
taries of the Church of England, on the state of religion, mor- 
als, and manners, in the British metropolis, published in 1831, 
" would lead one to suspect, that matrimony among peers 
was either a mere matter of money, or of political interest ; 
or else, that this holy relationship was considered by them 
as a state of legal concubinage, from which the parties, con- 
nected by no principle of affection and honour, might free 
themselves without the least apprehension of shame or dis- 
grace. What the state of morals is among the nobility may 
fairly be determined by the number of divorce-bills founded 
upon the crim. con. transactions of this privileged order of 
society." 

Can it be imagined, that the known licentiousness of 
George IV. and of his court, that the example of the late 
Duke of Clarence, now William IV., and the promotion of 
his natural sons to the highest dignities, have had no in- 
fluence in subtracting from the disgrace of like practices 
among the nobility, and in authorizing these offences against 
decency ; these crimes against the state 1 — or, that the same 
vices do not descend, with accumulating force, from the 
higher ranks of society to the lowest 1 

" The prodigality and dissipation of the court," says the 
authority above quoted, " have frequently had a very fatal 
influence both on the fortunes and the morals of an impor- 
tant branch of the community, by producing a general dis- 
soluteness of manners among' the nobility. Nor has it stop- 
ped there : since the expensive habits of the great have 
communicated to those whose opulence would allow them 
to imitate their fashionable extravagances, a vitiosity of 
taste and habits, that has not only led to an open contempt for 
the sacred duties of religion, but, in too many instances, to 
a direct violation of the common decencies of civilized life. 
The licentious manners of the court of Charles II. corrupt- 
ed the morals of the metropolis to a most alarming extent, 
and spread such a torrent of impiety and dissoluteness of 
principles through the country, as to threaten the total ex- 
tinction of the public ordinances and worship of God. At 
a more recent period, if we may judge from the ingenious 
•dialogues of a shrewd and temporizing prelate, the court has 



152 THE MONARCHY. 

exhibited the libertine features of an infidel character. In 
one of Dr. Hurd's dialogues, where Cowley and Sprat are 
the speakers, Mr. Cowley observes : ' My situation was 
such, that I came to have a familiarity with greatness. Yet 
shall I confess my inmost sentiments of this gilded life to 
you ? I found it empty, fallacious, and even disgusting. The 
outside indeed was fair ; but to me, who had an opportunity 
of looking it through, nothing could be more deformed and 
hateful. All was ambition, intrigue, and falsehood. Every 
one intent on his own schemes, frequently wicked, always 
base and selfish. Great professions of honour, of friendship, 
and of duty ; but all ending in low views and sordid prac- 
tices.' — ' Your idea, then, of a court,' says Sprat, ' is that of 
a den of thieves, only better dressed and more civilized.' 
' That,' said he, ' is the idea under which truth obliges me 
to represent it.' Such were the Bishop of Worcester's 
views of what may be termed the primum mobile of the 
empire. And there is too much reason to conclude, that 
the dissoluteness which characterized the last reign (George 
IV. 's), helped to promote in no small degree that general de- 
pravity of morals, which is so much to be deplored, as de- 
stroying the manly virtues of the English nobility, and con- 
taminating the national character of the lower orders of the 
people." 

William IV., however, since he came to the throne, has 
not given much occasion for fault-finding. As Duke of Clar- 
ence he was extremely unpopular ; but as king he has gen- 
erally a new character. 

But the court is at the head of the nation ; the court is the 
pattern of manners ; and the court is, to a great extent, the 
fountain of morals. Constituted as society in Great Britain 
is, it cannot be otherwise. It is, however, undoubtedly 
true, that the nation is better than the court. If it were not, 
and if there be any foundation for the above picture, drawn 
by the hand of a right reverend prelate, who ought to have 
a good conscience, the nation could not exist. The truth is, 
since liberty in Great Britain has attained such a footing, 
and religion, science, literature, commerce, and the arts 
have had such scope, the nation has risen in spite of these 
bad influences from high quarters. Since the court and the 
nobility have failed to reform the people, the people, rising 
from ages of depression, have undertaken to reform the 
nobility and court ; and it is well known, by this time, that 
they have done much of this work, and are going on at a 
hopeful rate. But notwithstanding it does not alter the 
great truth, that the example and influence of manners and 
morals in the highest ranks are bad. It is still true, that 
this effort at reformation is against the tide, and conse- 
quently difficult and slow. Still the court maintains its 
supremacy of influence, and ever must, till the constitution 



AND THE COURT. 153 

of society, in other words, till the constitution of the state, 
shall have been so modified, as to admit of the purification 
of the fountain. What modification of that grand instrument 
in form and degree is most expedient, is very difficult to say. 
Theories are of little value in determining such a question. 
Neither a republican, nor a monarchist, as such, and inde- 
pendent of a knowledge of the case, would be a competent 
judge. Without a violent revolution, Great Britain must, 
for an indefinite time to come, exist as a monarchy ; and it 
is no matter what the government is called, if it can be made 
to undergo such improvements as the condition of society 
from time to time may require. That, and that alone, ought 
to be the criterion. The monarchy has been greatly modi- 
fied ; it has gradually declined in influence and energy, as an 
antagonist of the popular will; and the same course of 
change may be carried to any extent, that may be expedient 
and necessary. In any amendments of the British constitu- 
tion that may be thought desirable, the greatest difficulty 
will not be in curtailing the power and privileges of the first 
estate, that is, of the king ; for there is no perpetuity of will 
to contend with in that, except by a fiction. That may 
easily be made to bend. Any thing may be made of it that 
time and circumstances may require. But the grand diffi- 
culty will be with the House of Lords. The will of that 
body is the grand barrier to improvement ; it is perpetual, 
and perpetually the same ; it will never bend ; it must one 
day be broken. 

The House of Lords is the only body that is interested 
in maintaining the ancient forms of the monarchy; in other 
words, in maintaining its corruptions ; in keeping up that 
system of society, which is opposed to the interests of the 
nation, which is an insuperable bar to improvement, and 
under which a corrupt court will make a corrupt aristoc- 
racy, and a corrupt aristocracy will corrupt the nation. 

" There are but two sorts of men," says Bishop Hurd, in 
his moral and political dialogues, or the bishop makes one 
of his colloquists to say — " there are but two sorts of men 
that should think of living in a court : The one is, of those 
strong and active spirits that are formed for business, and 
whose capacity fits them for the discharge of its functions. 
The other sort are what one may properly enough call, if 
the phrase were not somewhat uncourtly, the mob of courts 
— they who have vanity or avarice without ambition, or 
ambition without talents. These, by assiduity, good luck, 
and the help of their vices (for they would scorn to claim 
advancement if it were to be had by any other practices), 
may in time succeed to the lower parts of a government ; 
and together make up that showy, servile, and selfish crowd, 
which we dignify with the name of a court." A sorry 
G3 



154 COST OF THE MONARCHY. 

picture, indeed ; but since it comes from such authority, it 
may be worthy of some credit. 

The sum of the matter, then, is : That the British mon- 
archy is not only the head of the state, but the head of 
society ; the constitution gives it this position ; the habits 
of the community yield this supremacy ; the court, which 
encircles the monarchy, which is its circumstance and pa- 
geant, is the pattern of manners and the natural fountain 
of morals ; the metropolis is the centre and soul of the 
nation, and the court is the centre and soul of the metrop- 
olis ; from the court all high powers and influences ema- 
nate ; on it all eyes are fastened ; and with it all branches of 
society of controlling influence are allied. Consequently, 
in such a state of things it must follow, that the monarchy 
is the chief and most influential element of the great social 
fabric, of which it is a part, and at the head of which it 
stands, surmounted by a crown, the symbol of its high dig- 
nity and social importance. 

It may, perhaps, be worth while in this place to make a 
brief statement of the cost of the British monarchy to the 
nation^ The state provisions for royalty and its appenda- 
ges in Great Britain are called — The civil list — and are at 
present divided into five classes: — 1. The privy purse of 
the king and queen, or their pocket-money ; 2. Salaries of 
the royal household ; 3. Expenses of ditto ; 4. Special and 
secret service; and 5. Pensions to those who have been 
in the service of the royal family. Formerly, under the 
reigns of George IV. and his father, the civil list was divi- 
ded into nine classes, four of which, in the present reign, 
have been shifted upon the public in another form, making 
the civil list nominally less, though not diminishing the 
burdens of the community. At present it stands thus : — 

For their majesties' privy purse - £\ 10,000 

Salaries of the household - . . 130,300 

Expenses of household - 171,500 

Special and secret service - - - 23,200 

Pensions 75,000 



Total, £510,000 

From the accession of George III., in 1760, to the death 
of George IV., in 1830, comprehending a period of seventy 
years, the sum total of the civil list, as obtained from tan- 
gible public documents, is £92,090,807. The provisions and 
official emoluments of the royal dukes, from their first en- 
tering into public life down to the year 1815, together with 
various fees and perquisites which they were accustomed 
to receive, and annuities to the princesses on the Irish civil 
list, are not included in this statement, for want of specific 



EXPENSE OF THE MONARCHY. 155 

vouchers. They are supposed to have been sufficient to 
make up the round sum, in a grand total, of £ 100,000,000, for 
this period ; or an average annual expenditure of £ 1,428, 571. 
In Federal currency the entire sum for seventy years would 
be $480,000,000! and the average annual expenditure 
$6,857,140! For the same purpose, that is, for the salary 
of the President, the people of the United States pay for 
seventy years, $1,750,000, or .£364,583— a small fraction 
more than one fourth of the above estimate for the British 
nation for a single year ! For one year the American peo- 
ple pay for the same object $25,000, or .£5,200 — about the 
average annual expenditure for furnishing the wardrobe of 
George IV. ! Adding the expense of the President's house 
and its furniture, the secret service money allowed to our 
government, and a few other trifling items, corresponding 
with the classes of expenditure comprehended in the civil 
list of Great Britain — the disproportion of these compara- 
tive estimates would then be in a slight degree diminished — 
but nothing very considerable. 

The following are some curious items of the civil list of 
Great Britain : — 

Windsor Castle had cost the nation in 1831, for sundry 
repairs, j£894,500, and the additional estimate for its com- 
pletion was £190,670, making the sum of £1,085,170, or 
$5,208,816, for what some one has called a Gothic barbarism. 
It is, nevertheless, a royal thing. A cottage in the great 
Park of Windsor cost half a million sterling. The expense 
of the Pavilion at Brighton is estimated at £1,000,000. The 
new palace, at Pimlico will have cost about £1, 000,000 — 
.£70,000 of which have been bestowed on the front enclo- 
sure and gateway ! The privy purse, or pocket-money of 
William IV., is annually £60,000, or $288,000 ; that of his 
queen is £50,000, or $240,000. This is for their own per- 
sonal use, as the pocket-money of a lad at school, or the 
pin-money of a lady. If the queen outlives the king, 100 
per cent, is to be added to this, with all other needful pro- 
visions befitting her state as queen dowager. 

The king, however, is poor compared with some of his 
nobles. The annual income of the Duke of Sutherland is 
quoted at £360,000; of Northumberland at £300,000; of 
the Marquis of Westminster at £280,000; of the Duke of 
Buccleugh at £250,000. There are some others of the Eng- 
lish nobility with princely revenues, but the class are rela- 
tively and rapidly sinking in point of wealth, and common- 
ers of the empire are rising above them. The king is de- 
pendant ; his civil list is voted by parliament ; and in this 
sense he lives on charity. How charitable, then, are the 
British nation ! 

The expenses of the crown seals are about £20,000, or 



156 EXPENSE OF THE MONARCHY. 

$96,000 annually, all the duties of which might be done by 
one man and his clerk, and give them time to play the gen- 
tleman besides. During the regency of the Prince of Wales, 
the charge for upholstery for the royal household, only for 
three quarters of one year, was £46,29 1 ; for linen drapery, 
.£64,000 ; silversmiths, £40,000 ; wardrobe, £72,000 ;— total 
for these four items, £222,241, or $1,066,756 ! Burke says, 
that a plan of retrenchment of expense in the royal house- 
hold, set on foot by Lord Talbot, was suddenly stopped, be- 
cause, forsooth, it would endanger the situation of an hon- 
ourable ( ? ) member, who was turnspit in the kitchen ! The 
Duke of St. Albans receives an annual salary, conferred by 
letters patent under the hand of James II., still continued, 
of £1,372, as grand falconer, or, in more vulgar phrase, as 
master of the hawks ! The salary of the Earl of Litchfield, 
as master of the dogs, is £2,000 ! Both dignified appoint- 
ments for noblemen ! I suppose the turnspit was a noble- 
man. The average annual bill of George IV. for robes was 
£5,000, or $24,000 ; his stud of horses, although he scarcely 
ever rode beyond his pleasure-grounds, amounted to more 
than 200 ; and his old clothes, after his death, were sold in a 
heap for £15,000, or $72,000 ! His visit to Ireland cost the 
nation £52,261 ; ditto to Scotland, £21,439 ; ditto to Hano- 
ver, £13,206;— total, £86,906, or $417,148 for three jour- 
neys ! He took with him to Ireland forty-five professional 
cooks, and not one of them could prepare the first dish he 
called for, and his steward was obliged to pay an Irish 
woman for the office ! No lady was ever more nice in ma- 
king her toilet than George IV. He superintended the 
making of his coronation robes, and when they were done, 
he caused them to be put upon one of his best-made attend- 
ants, and ordered him to walk to and fro before his eyes, 
examining and adjusting every part till he was satisfied. 

When George IV. was Prince of W T ales, his debts at the 
time of his marriage, which Parliament had to cancel, were 
£642,890, or $3,085,872 ! Of this, £40,000 was his farrier's 
bill for horse-medicine and shoes. The prince gave Jeffreys 
an order for the marriage jewels of his wife, which amount- 
ed to £64,000 ! a comfortable affair for a wife to think upon. 
The prince's wife, afterward Queen Caroline, was the daugh- 
ter of the Duke and Dutchess of Brunswick, her mother be- 
ing the sister of George III., and she, of course, cousin to 
her husband. The prince had the credit of having married 
her to be relieved from his embarrassments, as she was rich. 
This order for the jewels would seem to be in that line. 

" When the reason of old establishments is gone," says 
Burke, " it is absurd to preserve nothing but the burden of 
them. This is superstitiously to embalm the carcass, not 
worth an ounce of the gums that are used to preserve it. 
It is to burn precious oils in the tomb ; it is to offer meat 



THE ROYAL FAMILY. 157 

and drink to the dead — not so much an honour to the de- 
ceased as a disgrace to the survivers. Our palaces are vast 
inhospitable halls: there the bleak winds — 'there Boreas, 
and Eurus, and Caurus, and Argestes, loud, 1 howling through 
the vacant lobbies, and clattering the doors of the deserted 
guard-rooms, appal the imagination, and conjure up the grim 
spectres of departed tyrants — the Saxon, the Norman, and 
the Dane — the stern Edwards and fierce Henries — who stalk 
from desolation to desolation through the dreary vacuity 
and melancholy succession of chill and comfortless cham- 
bers." 



William IV., King of Great Britain and Ireland, late Duke 
of Clarence, and third son of George III., was born Au- 
gust 21st, 1765; married July 11th, 1818, her Serene High- 
ness Amelia- Adelaide-Louise-Therese-Caroline-Wilhelmi- 
na, Princess of Saxe-Meinengen (what a name !), eldest 
daughter of George-Frederick-Charles, reigning Duke of 
Saxe-Meinengen; and has had two daughters — one died the 
day of birth, and the other lived a little less than three 
months. There being no issue living by the king, the Prin- 
cess Victoria, daughter and only child of the Duke of Kent, 
her father being dead, is heir presumptive to the British 
throne. She was born May 24th, 1819, and is now (July, 
1835) in her 17th year. Her mother, the Dutchess of Kent, 
is living, and, in connexion with the appointed state guardi- 
ans, has charge of her daughter's education. The Dutchess 
of Kent is a highly accomplished woman, has personal 
charms, and is popular. She is the daughter of the Duke 
of Saxe-Cobourg-Saalfield. 

The terms heir apparent and presumptive to the throne will 
be obvious, as appropriated — the former to designate a son 
or daughter of the reigning monarch, if one be living ; and 
the latter to point out the nearest akin, according to the es- 
tablished law for the descent of the crown, when the king 
has no heir of his own body. 

The brothers of William IV. living are the Duke of Cum- 
berland, Duke of Sussex, and Duke of Cambridge — the 
latter viceroy of Hanover. The king's sisters living are 
the Princesses Augusta, Elizabeth, Mary, Sophia, and Amelia. 
Elizabeth and Mary are widows, the former of the Prince of 
Hesse- Hombourg, who died in 1829 ; the latter of the late 
Duke of Gloucester. The other three princesses are un- 
married. George III. had fifteen children, of whom nine 
are living. The princes and princesses of the blood royal 
are distinguished by the title of Royal Highness. 

William IV. being in his seventieth year, and his con- 
stitution somewhat invaded by leading causes of mortality, 
14 



158 THE ARISTOCRACY. 

a demise of the crown, as it is technically called, may soon 
be expected ; in which case the British nation is likely to 
have a youthful queen. If the Princess Victoria should be 
taken before her great uncle, the crown will fall on the Duke 
of Cumberland and his family, who has a son, Prince George 
of Cumberland, born May 27th, 1819. Next is the Duke of 
Sussex, whose children cannot succeed, his marriage having 
been dissolved by parliament, as illegal. Next is the Duke 
of Cambridge, who has three children, one and the eldest a 
son — Prince George of Cambridge, born March 26th, 1819. 
It is expected that the Princess Victoria will marry one of 
the Georges, her cousins. In case of the failure of heirs 
legitimate to the British throne, the parliament is competent 
to make a special settlement of the crown. The house of 
Brunswick, however, has a large stock, and will probably 
save the parliament that trouble, if not as long as kings may 
be wanted, at least for a long time yet to come. 

THE ARISTOCRACY. 

The orders of nobility in Great Britain are five, in rank as 
follows : — Dukes, Marquesses, Earls, Viscounts, and Barons ; 
to which may be added a sixth, the Archbishops and Bishops, 
who, as spiritual lords, are entitled to a seat in the House 
of Peers, and possess for their lives all the faculties and 
privileges of the peerage. 

In 1824 there were in England 21 Dukes ; 19 Marquesses ; 
110 Earls ; 18 Viscounts; 196 Barons; 2 Archbishops, and 
24 Bishops. Total of English peerages, 390. 

In Scotland at the same time, 8 Dukes ; 3 Marquesses ; 
44 Earls ; 6 Viscounts ; and 24 Barons. Total of peerages 
in Scotland, 85. 

In Ireland, 1 Duke ; 14 Marquesses ; 73 Earls ; 43 Vis- 
counts ; and 70 Barons. The Irish Protestant Bishops are 
lords spiritual, for aught I know by courtesy, and are repre- 
sented in Parliament by four of their number in rotation. 
In fact, therefore, 4 of these use all the privileges and enjoy 
the honours of peers. Total of Irish peerages, 205. 

The total number of peerages, therefore, in the United 
Kingdom, in 1834, was 680. There have been a few crea- 
tions since ; I do not know the number ; say 5. The total 
will then be 685. 

But, as a plural number of peerages often vests in one 
individual — and sometimes two, rarely three — but in no 
cases of fact more than three — the actual number of peers 
is only 601. There are 14 peerages belonging to females 
of their own right — 5 Countesses, 1 Viscountess, and 8 
Baronesses. Total number of persons in the peerage, 615. 

The following are some of the privileges of nobility : — 
1. Exemption from arrest for debt. 2. They can be tried 



THE WEALTH OF DIFFERENT CLASSES. 159 

for crime and misdemeanors only by their peers, who give 
their verdict, not on oath, but on their honour. 3. Exemp- 
tion from scandal by a law subjecting their defamers to an 
arbitrary fine and imprisonment. 4. A peer may sit in a 
court of justice uncovered. 

Besides many other privileges, secured by ages of legis- 
lation originating in themselves, screening their property 
from taxation, and their persons from insult, the customs of 
society established and controlled by their own influence, 
defend them and their families at all points, in an undis- 
puted and unassailable pre-eminence. These privileges are 
watched and guarded with the most scrupulous consci- 
entiousness from all invasions by commoners. The aris- 
tocracy are a world by themselves, so entirely confined to 
their own society as to be ignorant to a great extent of the 
character and power of those popular elements, which are 
gradually undermining their importance and influence. The 
consequence is, they are constantly surprised by the demon- 
strations of popular will and the encroachments of popular 
sway. Born legislators, they know not how to use this 
function for their own protection in these reforming days. 
Instead of anticipating the irresistible influence and una- 
voidable results of popular sway, they yield only as they 
are compelled, and are consequently menaced with being 
completely overthrown. 

The real and comparative wealth of the nobility is gradu- 
ally declining, as well as their influence, a few overgrown 
estates excepted. It will appear, however, from the follow- 
ing table of the different classes of society in England, and 
their respective annual incomes, that the nobility have yet 
a substantial revenue in proportion to their numbers in the 
community. 

Number of 
Persons, in- Total 

DESCRIPTION OF PERSONS. eluding their income of 

Families and each 

Domestics. class. 

Royalty 300 510,000/. 

Nobility 13,620 5,400,000/. 

Gentry, including baronets, knights, 
country gentlemen, and others 

having' lar^e incomes - - - 402,535 53,022,590/. 

Clergy.— Eminent clergymen - - - 9,000 1,080,000/. 

Lesser ditto 87,000 3,500,000/. 

Dissenting clergy, including 

itinerant preachers - - - 20,000 500,000/. 
State and Revenue, including all per- 
sons employed under govern- 
ment 114,500 6,830,000/. 

Pensioners, including those of Green- 
wich, Chelsea, and Kilmainham 
Hospitals 92,000 1 050,000/. 



160 WEALTH OF DIFFERENT CLASSES. 

Law. Judges, barristers, attorneys, 

clerks, &c. 95,000 7,600,000/. 

Physic. — Physicians, surgeons, apothe- 
caries, &c. 90,000 5,400,000/. 

Agriculture. — Freeholders of the better 

sort 385,000 19,250,000/. 

Lesser Freeholders - - - 1,050,000 21,000,000/. 

Farmers 1,540,000 33,600,000/. 

Trade. — Eminent merchants - - - 35,000 9,100,000/. 

Shopkeepers, and tradesmen 

retailing goods - - - - 700,000 28,000 000/. 

Innkeepers and publicans li- 
censed to sell ale, beer, and 

spirituous liquors - - - 437,000 8,750,000/. 

Working Classes. — Agricultural la- 
bourers, mechanics, artisans, 
handicrafts, and all labourers 
employed in manufactures, 

mines, and minerals - - - 7,497,531 82,451,547/. 
Paupers, vagrants, gipsies, rogues, 
vagabonds, and others support- 
ed by criminal delinquency - 1,548,500 9,871,000/. 

Total 14,116,986 • 

Total 295,916,137/. 

This table is only for England. The annual revenue of 
all classes in the United Kingdom, including what is paid by 
government to the army, navy, and civil functionaries, is 
stated at £316,000,000, or $1,516,800,000. The item under 
the head of royalty is the civil list, as settled by parliament 
on the accession of William IV. Of the £5,400,000, being 
the gross annual revenue of the nobility of England, 
£2,825,846, are the proceeds of taxes and lay impropriations 
of tithes ; the residue is territorial revenue. A large frac- 
tion of this £5,400,000 is absorbed by a few of the most 
wealthy families. Many of the nobility are poor. Of the 
entire peerage, about 600 families, only 18 are engaged in 
commercial and other business pursuits. While this class 
lives on privilege, others in the community are rapidly ac- 
quiring wealth ; and as wealth rises in influence, in the new 
order of things, the latter are gaining power in a proportion- 
ate degree. 

The Baronets of Great Britain are a sort of half-way- 
between order of society. They are not noble, and yet are 
raised a degree above the commonalty. This, however, is 
conferred as the reward of distinction in the army and navy, 
in the learned professions, in science and the useful arts, in 
wealth and genius, and sundry other accidental modes, by 
which men force themselves into notice and favour at 
court. They are in number, as I suppose, at this time 
about 700. In 1832 they were 658, being somewhat in ex- 



ORDER OF PRECEDENCY. 



161 



cess of the number of peers. There are also various orders 
of knights. 

The following list of the order of precedency of men and 
women, required to be observed at court and on other pub- 
lic occasions, may serve to gratify the curious, and show 
how they settle such matters in Great Britain by authority : — 

A TABLE OF PRECEDENCY OF MEN. 



The King. 
Prince of Wales. 

King's Sons. 

King's Grandsons 

King's Brothers. 

King's Uncles. 

King's Nephews. 

Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord 

Primate of all England. 
Lord High Chancellor, or Lord 

Keeper, being a Baron. 

Archbishop of York, Primate of 

England. 

Lord High Treasurer. 

Lord President of the Privy 

Council. 

Lord Privy Seal. 

Lord Great Chamberlain. 

Lord High Constable. 

Earl Marshal. 
Lord High Admiral. 



of the 
Household. 



Speaker of the House of Com- 
mons. 
Treasurer, 
Comptroller, 
Vice-chamberlain, 
Secretary of State, being under 
the degree of a Baron. 
Viscounts' eldest Sons. 
Earls' younger Sons. 
Barons' eldest Sons. 
Knights of the Garter. 
Privy Counsellors. 
Chancellor of the Exchequer 
Chancellor of the Dutchy of Lan- 
caster. 
Lord Chief Justice of the King's 
Bench. 
Master of the Rolls. 
Vice-chancellor. 
Lord Chief Justice of the Common 
Pleas. 



Steward of his Majesty's Lord Chief Baron of the Exche- 

Hcusehold. quer. 

Chamberlain of his Majes- Judges of the King's Bench. 
Judges of the Common Pleas. 
Barons of the Exchequer. 
Bannerets made by the King him- 
self, in person, under the 
royal standard, displayed in 
an army royal, in open war. 
Viscounts' younger Sons. 
Barons' younger Sons. 
Baronets. 
Bannerets not made by the King 
himself in person. 
Knights of the Thistle. 
Knights Grand Crosses of the 
Bath. 
Knights of St. Patrick. 
Knights Commanders of the Bath. 

Knights Bachelors. 
Eldest Sons of the younger Sons 

of Peers. 

Eldest Sons of Knights of the 

Garter. 



Lord 

Lord Chamberlain of his Majes- 
ty's Household. 
Dukes according to their Patents. 
Eldest Sons of Dukes of the Blood 

Royal. 
Marquesses according to their 
Patents. 
Dukes' eldest Sons. 
Earls according to their Patents. 
Younger Sons of Dukes of the 
Blood Royal. 
Marquesses' eldest Sons. 
Dukes' younger Sons. 
Viscounts according to their Pat- 
ents. 
Earls' eldest Sons. 
Marquesses' younger Sons. 
Bishops of London, Durham, Win- 
chester, and all other Bishops 
according to their seniority 
of Consecration. 
Barons according to their Patents 



14* 



162 



ORDER OF PRECEDENCY. 



Bannerets' eldest Sons. 

Baronets' eldest Sons. 

Companions of the Bath. 

Eldest Sons of Knights of the 

Thistle and Bath. 

Knights' eldest Sons. 

Baronets' younger Sons. 

Esquires of the King's Body. 

Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber. 

Esquires of the Knights of the 

Bath. 



Esquires by Creation. 

Esquires by Office. 

Younger Sons of Knights of the 

Garter. 

Younger Sons of Bannerets. 

Younger Sons of Knights of the 

Bath. 
Younger Sons of Knights Bache- 
lors. 
Gentlemen. 



A TABLE OF PRECEDENCY OF WOMEN. 



The Queen. 

Princess of Wales. 

Princesses, Daughters of the 

King. 

Princesses and Dutchesses, Wives 

of the King's Sons. 

Wives of the King's Brothers. 

Wives of the King's Uncles. 

Wives of the eldest Sons of Dukes 

of the Blood Royal. 
Daughters of Dukes of the Blood 

Royal. 

W r ives of the King's Brothers' or 
Sisters' Sons. 
Dutchesses. 
Marchionesses. 
W T ives of the eldest Sons of Dukes. 
Daughters of Dukes. 
Countesses. 
Wives of the eldest Sons of Mar- 
quesses. 
Daughters of Marquesses. 
Wives of the younger Sons of 
Dukes. 
Viscountesses. 
Wives of the eldest Sons of Earls. 

Daughters of Earls. 
Wives of the younger Sons of 
Marquesses. 
Baronesses. 
Wives of the eldest Sons of Vis- 
counts. 
Daughters of Viscounts. 
Wives of the younger Sons of 

Earls. 

Wives of the eldest Sons of Barons. 

Daughters of Barons. 

Maids of Honour. 

Wives of the younger Sons of 

Viscounts. 



Sons of 



Wives of the younger 

Barons. 

Baronetesses. 

Wives of Knights of the Garter. 

Wives of Bannerets of each 

kind. 

Wives of Knights of the Bath. 

Wives of Knights Bachelors. 

Wives of the eldest Sons of the 

younger Sons of Peers. 
Wives of the eldest Sons of Bar- 
onets. 
Daughters of Baronets. 
Wives of the eldest Sons of 

Knights of the Garter. 
Daughters of Knights of the Gar- 
ter. 
Wives of the eldest Sons of Ban- 
nerets. 
Daughters of Bannerets. 
Wives of the eldest Sons 

Knights of the Bath. 
Daughters of Knights of 

Bath. 
Wives of the eldest Sons 

Knights Bachelors. 

Daughters of Knights Bachelors. 

Wives of the younger Sons of 

Baronets. 

Daughters of Knights. 

Wives of the Esquires of 

King's Body. 

Wives of the Esquires of 

Knights of the Bath. 

Wives of Esquires by Creation. 

Wives of Esquires by Office. 

Wives of the younger Sons of 

Knights of the Garter. 

Wives of the younger Sons of 

Bannerets. 



of 



the 
of 



the 

the 



CHAPEL ROYAL. 163 



Wives of the younger Sons of 

Knights of the Bath. 

Wives of the younger Sons of 

Knights Bachelors. 



Wives of Gentlemen. 
Daughters of Esquires. 
Daughters of Gentlemen. 



"We might extend this list to special grants of precedency; 
but this is enough. 

So sacred is the order of precedency in society, as held in 
Great Britain, that it always requires to be settled by au- 
thority; and when determined, it is maintained with the 
greatest scrupulousness, each rank asserting and defending 
its own rights. This spirit descends from the higher ranks 
to the lower, and pervades the wide community, not except- 
ing the menials " below stairs," and the common grooms of 
the stable. 



CHAPEL ROYAL OF ST. JAMES. 

I arrived at the palace at half past eleven A. M., half an 
hour before the service commenced. It was fixed at twelve 
o'clock, for the purpose, I believe, of having a supply of 
choristers and musicians from Westminster Abbey and St. 
Paul's, where service begins at ten o'clock. Certainly it is 
not to be presumed that the king is obliged to wait and 
be served last ; but twelve o'clock in such a matter is a 
more courtly hour. 

I perceived that many strangers, like myself, were in the 
passages to the chapel at the same time. The two persons 
immediately before me in the door were turned back, be- 
cause they had no tickets of admission. Perceiving by this 
encounter what was requisite, and not being myself furnished 
with a ticket, I took my own card, laid a shilling on the face 
of it, and whispered to the porter — "I am a foreigner." 
Whether he was influenced more by courtesy than by the 
silver key, I cannot say, but he took the money, and let me 



N. B. It is unlawful in England to take money for admis- 
sion to places of public worship when they are opened for 
divine service ; so at least it was once decided by a London 
magistrate. And yet the Roman Catholics in London al- 
ways exact money of strangers — a shilling, or one-and-six- 
pence, according to the part of the church that one wishes 
to go into. The authorities of a place of worship are liable 
to be fined for such offence, as I have understood, and very 
properly. Suppose I were to make suit before the Lord 
Mayor of London, or before the highest magisterial author- 



164 SERVICE AT 

ity of Westminster, and cause a writ to be served on the 
King of Great Britain to appear and answer for allowing the 
doorkeepers of his chapel to take money of those who go 
in to worship there. For aught I can see, the king is actu- 
ally liable to be thus arraigned ; and it would be a curious fact 
in history, if it should be done, and he should be fined. It 
would be still more interesting, if, in paying his fine, he should 
say — This is as it should be, the king subject to the laws. 

The Chapel Royal of St. James is very small. Not more 
than three hundred persons can crowd into it, sitting and 
standing ; and by far the greater part of this number will be 
obliged to stand. I was on my feet from the time I left 
home till I returned — three hours and a half. The chapel 
and its furniture are very plain. I could but remark the dif- 
ference between this and the one in the palace of Versailles. 
The former is a little oldfashioned English box : the latter 
corresponds in all respects with the magnificence, the gor- 
geousness, and extravagance of that prince's reign, under 
whose fiat it came into being, as one of the many equally 
remarkable features of that splendid monument of despot- 
ism, which cost the people of France more than £40,000,000, 
or $192,000,000. 

I challenged the attention of a friend, an Englishman, to 
this comparison. " Ay," said he, " you see the difference 
between liberty and despotism !" The Englishman boasts 
of his liberty compared with other parts and periods of the 
world ; and the American looks at the expense of the Brit- 
ish monarchy, and says, " See what an unnecessary bur- 
den!" 

Precisely at twelve o'clock the king and queen appeared 
in front of the box, or pew, assigned them. What is com- 
monly called the front gallery of a church or chapel — and 
where there is no other gallery — is here appropriated to the 
king and royal family. The central part is occupied by the 
king and queen, who, when standing, are exposed to the 
view of all persons in a position to look that way. On their 
right and left are seated other members of the royal house- 
hold who happen to be there. In the present instance the 
Princess Augusta and one of the young princes were in 
these places. Several persons in waiting were in the re- 
tired parts of this gallery, and among the rest two dignita- 
ries of the church, deputy clerks of the closet, whose office 
on this occasion was to come in before service, and so ar- 
range the marking-strings of the prayer-books of the king, 
queen, princesses, and princes, that they might be able to 
find their places in the lessons of the day, and other parts 
of the service ; and also to stand behind, to render any 
information, or give any hints that might be needed in the 
progress of Divine worship. When I saw these clergymen 
in full robes, tumbling over and arranging the prayer-books 



THE CHAPEL ROYAL. 165 

before the service had commenced, I concluded that they 
themselves were to officiate from that place ; not imagining 
that the king and queen, and other members of the royal 
family, had need of such assistance, as the finding of their 
places in the liturgy, or that the said office was of sufficient 
importance to employ high church dignitaries in their robes. 
Such, however, seems to have been the fact. I could but 
think that it would have been a more economical arrange- 
ment, if those reverend gentlemen had been sent out some- 
where to preach the Gospel to hungry souls — for they seemed 
to have nothing to do there but to find places in the prayer- 
book ! Cannot a king find his own place 1 

As the king and queen entered, and were visible to the 
assembly, all the congregation rose. I could not find fault 
with this, unless I were to censure the practice in our col- 
leges and universities, where the general custom, I believe, 
is to pay this respect to the presiding officer, when he enters 
the assembly, even on the occasion of Divine worship. I 
must confess, however, it has always struck me as unsuit- 
able. It is no more nor less, in either case, than the wor- 
ship of man, in the place and at the time of Divine worship. 
I do not mean that the worship in each case is of the same 
kind ; but it is homage — it is worship. It seems to me, in 
spite of all reasoning, incompatible with that undivided re- 
spect which is due to God on occasions of public worship. 

The service immediately commenced. There was nothing 
remarkable in any part of it to those who have attended 
cathedral service. It was for the most part chanted by sep- 
arate groups of choristers, men and boys, and often in full 
chorus. There was an anthem after the sermon, as usual 
at the royal chapel and at cathedrals. " The bidding," as it 
is called* is a sort of bill, or public notice, read by the 
preacher after sermon, prescribing, commanding, and order- 
ing to the congregation present, for whom and for what they 
are to pray, beginning "Pray ye," &c, being itself of the 
twofold character of a prayer, and a commendation what to 
pray for. On the present occasion it appeared to be a neio 
bill, adapted to the state of public affairs. Inasmuch as it 
is itself a prayer, apparently so, I was struck with the oc- 
currence of the following expression : — " Especially for 
our two famous universities of Oxford and Cambridge." 
"Famous" in a prayer! "We pray unto thee, O Lord, for 
owe famous universities." 

These " biddings" are very specific. You may hear them 
at Oxford and Cambridge — at Oxford, certainly, and I pre- 
sume at Cambridge — even at this day, "bidding" the con- 
gregation to pray for the departed souls of such and such 
patrons and benefactors of the university, mentioning their 
names ! ! ! 

The sermon was delivered by the Rev. Mr. . His 



166 SERVICE AT THE CHAPEL ROYAL. 

introduction, or exordium, was apologetic for himself, as not 
knowing how to address such an assembly, he being a 
country clergyman. He did not appear, however, m any 
wise to be embarrassed. 1 do not think, on the whole, he was 
much inclined to be affected in that way. 1 think he must 
have been fresh from the university, and" from the ehymieal 
laboratory. For. having found occasion to employ the 
somewhat homely phrase — M to set people a thinking.*' and 
to repeat it a third or fourth time, lest his hearers should 
not understand it. or lest they should fail to feel the force 
of it, he gave it to us in the less vulgar form of — " to strain 
through the alembic of our own brains." In the prog] 88 
of the sermon we a- - d with a great variety of style 
in an abundance of tropes and figures — some things remark- 
ably clever, and some remarkably stupid. I shall be par- 
doned, perhaps, on account of this variety, for suspecting. — 
as the custom is tolerated, and even sanctioned by high au- 
thority in England — that the sermon was no; got up at the 
expense and trouble of this preacher's having been " set a 
thinking :" that it was not " strained through the alembic 
of his men brains ;" nor yet, indeed, that it was produced by 
one other man. but by many ; that it was a somewhat elabo- 
rate compilation, suited for the debut of a country clergy- 
man, m the Royal Chapel, who. perhaps, was a candidate for 
place. 

During the last prayer, offered by a Right Rev. Bishop at 
the altar, the king seemed to have become tired of the ser- 
vice, and leaned forward resting carelessly on his elbows, 
looking down on the congregation, and appeared as if he 
were counting them, and making a close inspection of each 
— one by one ; — and his examination was not arrested, even 
while the bishop was praying for " our most gracious sove- 
reign and lord. King William." His majesty still kept 
counting, or making his observations on tins, that, and the 
other of the assembly. He looked at me. 

But I was affected, and could have wept, at the manner 
of the queen, as the bishop in his prayer came to the clause, 
u Our most gracious Queen Adelaide." So much are we 
influenced by appearances. 1 shall never forget it. If I 
were a painter. I could describe it exactly. If I were to 
attempt it by the pen. it would be thought sentimental; and I 
will therefore let it alone. But I love to think of it. It was 
an agreeable sight. Yet it cannot be appreciated without a 
consideration of the morale in its public and social relations. 
To think of a whole nation praying at the same moment for 
a single individual — "Our most* gracious Queen Adelaide;" 
and there she is ! you see her ! She rests her elbow on the 
cushion, her head upon her hand, and seems to be in tears ! 
She is overwhelmed with gratitude, at the thought of so 
many united and sincere prayers going up to heaven in her 



TEMPLE OF BUDDHA. 167 

behalf. Her name is at the same moment on a thousand 
tongues, and the kindest affections of ten thousand hearts, 
throughout the kingdom, mingle in the orisons, and sweeten 
the incense ! 



THE TEMPLE OF BUDDHA. 

On a time, as I was emerging from Green Park into Pic- 
cadilly, I saw an attractive human figure turn a corner, and 
pass off into another direction from that in which I was 
going. One does not like to be arrested, nor to turn aside 
at every new or strange thing that presents itself in Lon- 
don — we are so often made fools of by it. And yet there 
was something very peculiar in this personage. I could not 
tell whether it was man or woman, the dress had such a 
mixture of what might be supposed to belong to either sex. 
It was rich also. The movements of the individual, who 
seemed to me at the moment a mysterious being, were 
graceful and dignified, as he turned his back upon me, show- 
ing at the instant an interesting profile of a dark, and almost 
African countenance. He glided away, and in another 
moment became invisible by the intervention between him- 
self and me, of the massy walls of those stately mansions 
of Piccadilly, which look out upon the park. Every indi- 
vidual, man, woman, child, and, I might say, the very horses 
stopped, like myself, and turned to gaze at the stranger. 
Do not let me lose credit for saying horses — because those 
who drove and rode after them were so curious. It was al- 
together an unwonted vision, even for London. I had seen, 
as I supposed, all manner of costumes, from all parts of the 
world, in that great mart of the nations ; but this was strange 
among them all. A rich shawl — the richest of the east — 
occupied the place of the woman's petticoat on the person 
of this individual, but wrapped so close as apparently to 
embarrass the motion of the limbs, and constrain the shortest 
steps, but not the less graceful. A mantle of the richest 
and finest wool, with its large and manifold volumes, hung 
over and pendent from the shoulders. A head of thick-set, 
long, black, and well-oiled hair, was done up, after the man- 
ner of women, and secured by one of the most expensive 
and finely-wrought combs. On the top of the head, as a 
crown, rested a rich woollen cap, set with care on the side 
of the head, tapering off, and hanging a tassel behind the 
ear, which fell nearly on the shoulder. I was struck with 
the apparently conscious and yet careless dignity, the lofty 
mien and entire self-possession, with which this strange 



168 TEMPLE OF BUDDHA. 

being made his entrance and his exit so suddenly, and so 
much like an unearthly vision, before me. There was evi- 
dently too much importance in the personage, whether man 
or woman, to allow of vulgar approach and vulgar gaze. 
And no crowd, strange as the apparition was, presumed to 
follow its footsteps. It was present — it was gone. And 
myself and many more that saw it, were left wrapped in 
wonder. I spoke of it afterward, and inquired for expla- 
nation, but nobody could solve the mystery. 

Some few days subsequent to this strange apparition, I 
went, not to worship, but to see the temple of the Indian 
god Buddha, then exhibiting at Exeter Hall. It was in all 
respects complete, and a perfect model. Nay, it was not a 
model, but a very original, once consecrated, and actually 
used in India (Ceylon) for all the common purposes of reli- 
gious and divine worship. It had every part and parcel of 
a Buddhist temple, and by some stealth and sacrilege, I know 
not how, had been taken down, brought from India, and set 
up in London for show and money-making. The public au- 
thorities in London and in India, and also a Wesleyan mis- 
sionary from India, then in London, certified to its genuine- 
ness and completeness, which was very satisfactory. We 
knew that in seeing this we certainly had thus far an exact 
pattern of Indian idolatry — as much so as if the very taber- 
nacle of Moses were set up before our eyes, to show us the 
Israelites' temple of the true God in the wilderness. 

I have not its exact dimensions, say twenty-five feet by 
eighteen, and eight feet high, divided into two compartments 
of equal size ; the farther one being what might be called 
the sanctum sanctorum, where was exhibited the colossal im- 
age of the god Buddha, recumbent on his right side, his head 
resting on a pillow, his right hand lying under his cheek, 
though not touching it, the left stretched full length, and ly- 
ing on the body. The image, or god, was eighteen feet 
long, and the whole form in proportion in all its parts, 
equally gigantic, and fully exposed, except that it seemed 
to be laid out in rich and costly vestments, the whole being 
a carved work from wood, and gorgeously, though somewhat 
fantastically, painted in divers colours. The form and fea- 
tures, and every thing, were African — the colour only ex- 
cepted — with black and woolly hair on the head. As a 
whole, it was far from being a captivating picture. It was 
even ugly. The art of carving in the east must be in its 
infancy. At the head and foot stood two devotees, Bra- 
mins of distinction, large as life, engaged in the worship of 
their god. There were several other carved statues in the 
temple, ugly enough, two or three having four arms each, 
after the manner of the east. The walls and ceilings were 
filled and crowded with paintings, to represent the mysteries 
of the religion after death, and the various and successive 



THE MYSTERY SOLVED. ] 69 

conditions of existence through which the good and the 
wicked pass, from age to age, and from one cycle of eter- 
nity to another. They comprehend the study of a man's 
life, and at the end of it he would get but a little way. The 
representations were all gross, those of hell extremely so, 
where the sufferers were plunged into a lake of fire, hewing 
each other with hatchets, streaming in torrents of blood, 
themselves of the ugliest and most frightful shapes, gnash- 
ing their teeth, and exhibiting every sign of extreme agony. 

On the contrary, the happy did not seem very happy, nor 
their condition very desirable. Such is the religion of 
200,000,000 of the human family. As we were informed in 
the glossary of this exhibition, Buddha, the god, ceased to 
exist on earth 450 years before Christ, at the eightieth year 
of his age. This temple, as a whole, was a fantastic exhi- 
bition, and interesting principally and only, as we were as- 
sured, that it was an exact pattern of every other public 
temple of this deity in India. There it stood : a very tem- 
ple of the Buddhists, and perfect in all its parts, having been 
actually consecrated. 

Along with this was exhibited, on a large table, a toy-like 
scene of a great and principal religious procession, at the 
city of Kandy, Island of Ceylon, carrying the sacred relics 
of Buddha. Also an army of masks, used for amusements 
at public fetes, &c. 

The interpreter of this exhibition was no other than that 
strange personage whom I had seen, as above narrated, 
passing from Piccadilly into one of the streets of the West 
End, in the same habit in every particular, except that his 
mantle was laid aside ; and it was he that gave chief inter- 
est to the whole concern. He was one of the handsomest 
men, and of the most perfect symmetry in form, that I ever 
saw — in colour, a dark bronze. Bishop Heber has said, if I 
mistake not, that one attribute of the greatest beauty of the 
human countenance is a bronze colour, to be found nowhere 
but in India. Since I have seen this man, I say so too. 
He was perhaps twenty-five years of age ; his form, profile, 
and features were every thing that one could wish — his 
manners the perfection of grace and dignity — his mind evi- 
dently of the highest order, imparting its character to all 
his deportment ; and while he was there, the temple and all 
its supposed holy things had little attraction. He is a Chris- 
tian, and spoke English with great purity. I found that the 
attention of all the company, like my own, was directed 
principally to him. I only felt sorry, as he appeared to be 
a man of extreme modesty and delicacy of feeling, that he 
was obliged to encounter so many inquiries about his per- 
sonal history. 

H 15 



170 EXTORTIONS OF 



EXTORTIONS OF MENIALS. 

At Surrey Sessions, Kingston, Oct. 15th, 1834, Mr. Jef- 
fery introduced a motion " for a committee to take into 
consideration the legality of a custom, prevailing in this 
country, whereby the crier of the court of quarter and ad- 
journed sessions demands of persons charged with misde- 
meanors (being out on bail) certain fees on their acquittal." 
# * * * * 

" The chairman observed that the fees were not demand- 
ed under any order of the court." * * ■ * * 

" Mr. Jeffery observed that, in the county of Middlesex, 
the same had been exacted," &c, and, on being considered, 
"had been declared illegal." * * * * * 

" Mr. Hawes, M. P., wished to know if the demand for 
the fees was legal." 

" Mr. Lawson, the clerk of the peace, said the fees had 
been demanded between forty and fifty years, and were 
sanctioned by immemorial usages" (hear, hear). 

" Mr. Hawes inquired if there were any means of recov- 
ering the fees if refused." 

" Mr. Lawson said — certainly." 

This record is a suitable text for a remark or two, on the 
countless and gross impositions and exactions practised 
in Great Britain on strangers and her own citizens, under 
cover of law. After having been persecuted some two or 
three hours by an obtrusive and officious personage at the 
Giant's Causeway in Ireland, when I desired to be alone, 
that I might enjoy unmolested the perfection and magnifi- 
cence of God's own work ; and being unable by any hints, 
or art, or authority, to be quit of my annoying and vexa- 
tious companion, he had the modesty at the end of the 
scene to prefer a demand of six shillings, adding, when I 
seemed a little disposed to question the claim — " we have 
agreed upon it among ourselves ; it is customary.'''' 

On entering the pleasure-grounds of Studley Park, Rip- 
pon, Yorkshire, the visiters are requested by a card sus- 
pended at the gate (so it was in 1832), not to give the guide 
more than half a crown, a modest way of saying — " Don't 
give him less." And the demand in this case is very rea- 
sonable for the distance travelled before one has made the 
circuit to Fountain's Abbey and back again. But the pleas- 
ant feature of it is, that such an expedient should be adopt- 
ed to secure an adequate compensation for services. In 
cases where the services are slender and brief, no specifi- 
cation of fees stares the visiter in the face. All the trav- 



MENIALS. 171 

elling world, I am sure, would vote for the formation of a 
special code, done in conscience, to determine the fees of 
porters, waiters, and all manner of servants, throughout the 
British empire, that they might know them at sight, and 
be saved the pain of encountering the insolence of menial 
stations, and the most studied exactions on their generous 
feelings at every corner. 

At Northumberland Castle the stranger will be very con- 
tented to pay his half crown to a principal servant for being 
shown the home and furnished apartments of a British 
nobleman, whose annual income is .£300,000. 

But there is no uniformity. Custom at one place does 
not determine the law at another. The contrivances of 
menials to get money from visiters are infinitely diversified, 
and at every successive place will take the stranger by sur- 
prise. They are indeed founded on a general principle, 
viz. : — to deliver over the visiter to as many hands as there 
are servants in the establishment, if he wishes to see the 
whole ; each one, at the end of his office, bowing and lift- 
ing out of the stranger's pocket, under the eye of the ser- 
vant from whom he parts, and of the one to whom he is 
delivered, all that his generosity and his sense of depend- 
ance at the moment, and in the circumstances, may extort 
from him. 

At Warwick Castle, having been shown the state rooms, 
which can easily be passed through in ten or fifteen minutes, 
I dropped into the hand of the attendant a half crown for 
myself although in company with other visiters not per- 
sonally known to me, having understood that this was the 
consideration expected for seeing all ; but had the mortifi- 
cation to find that every servant, into whose hands I pass- 
ed, employed the customary modes of exaction. 

Oxford, with its university and colleges, is peculiarly 
attractive. My principal visit there was during the autum- 
nal dispersion ; and I availed myself only in part of the 
civilities that were offered to show me the remarkable 
things. I had the curiosity, which is not one of the least 
of the place, to reckon up what might very conveniently be 
expended there, in satisfying all the servants of the univer- 
sity, colleges, and other lions of the town, into whose hands 
a visiter would naturally fall, in exploring the various ob- 
jects worthy of a stranger's attention, and looking into the 
detail of the economy of that great institution ; and it is 
within limits to say — that, independent of civilities, he 
might easily dispose of some four or five guineas, equal to 
twenty or twenty-five dollars ! There are many places where 
a half crown is expected ; and no servant, however trifling 
the office rendered, will return an articulate and hearty 
" thank you" for less than a shilling. I happened in one 
case to turn into the jurisdiction of an old woman, and at 
H2 



172 EXTORTIONS OF 

the first glance of her mysteries, not being particularly at- 
tracted by them, I turned upon my heel, leaving in her hand 
a sixpence for the imposition she had practised by ii:> itiag 
me in. I occupied her attention in all perhaps sixty sec- 
onds. "Gentlemens gives me a shilling, sir." I gave her 
the shilling, with a blush over all my feelings, that I had 
run such a hazard to save a sixpence. 

One cannot get out of the Tower of London, and see all, 
at a less expense than half a guinea. Why not order, that 
the guide who takes up the stranger at the gate should 
show him the whole, and dismiss him at a fair price, which 
certainly ought not to exceed half a croivn ? Why should 
not the authorities of the University of Oxford commission 
a sufficient number of valets de place, to open every gate 
and door that is proper to be opened to a visiter, that he 
may see all he wishes to see, for a guinea or half a guinea, 
or whatever may be suitable to order, without his being 
obliged to encounter the annoyances of the present system ? 

The only place in Great Britain, worthy of a stranger's 
attention, that is free to all, so far as I know, is the British 
Museum in London ; and there, for the custody of an um- 
brella, which can never be dispensed with six months in the 
year, one must draw out the smallest silver coin he may 
happen to have, if his habits of improvidence, or unwilling- 
ness to be encumbered with the bulk and weight thereof, 
has left him without copper. Indeed, take it all in all, the 
tax of satisfying the various orders of servants, porters, and 
guides in England, if a stranger would go wherever it is de- 
sirable, and see all that he wishes, is enormous ; but the 
worst of all is the hidden and untraceable expedients adopt- 
ed to entrap and impose upon the stranger. He sees not his 
position till it is too late to defend himself, or obtain a rem- 
edy. In spite of all his experience, by the time he has es- 
caped from one cheat, he falls into the hands of another. 
His vexation is sometimes partly relieved by admiring the 
ingenuity and laughing at the mode by which he has been 
deceived. 

Being at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, in the summer of 
1834, I had engaged with some friends to go round the 
island in one of the steamboats, which statedly make that 
trip during the visiting season. The steamer lay at anchor 
a cable's length from the end of the pier, while we were 
waiting near the time. Small boats were constantly going 
off with passengers ; and we at last jumped into one of them. 
It is usual to stow them full, as was the case with ours. 
When we arrived alongside the vessel, we found ourselves 
dashing against it by every wave, coming in contact with 
the paddle, splashed with the water, and threatened being 
sunk, till we were obliged to push off for comfort and safety ; 
and there wait for another steamer, which in the meantime 



MENIALS. 173 

had approached the other side, to discharge on board of our 
vessel the passengers it had brought from the pier. This 
second steamer was employed by our captain to bring out 
his company ; but we and many others, innocent creatures, 
not being aware of these arrangements for our convenience, 
had fallen into the hands of the rapacious watermen, who 
demanded of us threepence a head, first for deceiving us, and 
next for exposing us to be drowned. The ladies were fright- 
ened, and some got wet. 

I was once swamped in the sea, on the north shore of Ire- 
land, in company with a fellow-passenger, as we were being 
put ashore from a vessel in rough weather, by the filling of 
the boat, in consequence of its having been dashed against 
the side of the packet. The people on shore gazed at the 
scene with much apparent anxiety. When at last we got 
safe on land, thoroughly drenched, luggage and all, many 
feet were running, and many hands were offered to our as- 
sistance. One picked up one thing, another a second, and 
a third picked up a drowned hat from the sea. We seemed 
to want nothing of sympathy for our peril, or of help in our 
need. It turned out, however, that every one who had lifted 
a finger for our assistance, and apparently every one who had 
deigned to look on in our distress, demanded to be paid for it. 
The intense feeling of gratitude to God for our deliverance — 
for all supposed we must be lost — mingled with the pain of 
meeting these numerous claims to pecuniary reward for acts 
of humanity, was a conflict of emotion rarely to be encoun- 
tered. It seemed even more painful to be in such society, 
than to be in the sea before we were rescued. In the melee 
of this swarm of applicants for compensation, one of them 
contrived to abstract my umbrella. 

But to return to the motion in the court of Surrey Ses- 
sions. A man, forsooth, is arraigned for a misdemeanor ; 
he is tried ; he is acquitted : but the moment he is pro- 
nounced innocent by his jury, and apparently dismissed 
from the grasp of the law, turning from the bar to go to his 
house, and meet the congratulations of his friends, if he has 
any — if not, so much the worse — he meets the crier of the 
court : " Pay me that thou owest" — ten shillings and sixpence. 
"For what"?" — "For not being guilty." — "This is very 
strange." — " But it is custom. ' We have agreed to it among 
ourselves.' It has been the practice here between forty and 
fifty years. It is my prescriptive right." 

The unfortunate man, it may be, has not a sixpence — not 
a copper — in the world. He turns to the court for protec- 
tion. It is true the court have pronounced him innocent; 
but they have nothing to do with a matter of this kind ; they 
cannot help him ; and he is thrown into prison until he shall 
pay the debt ! It actually happened in the sessions of Clerk- 
enwell, Middlesex, that a prisoner, on being acquitted, 
15* 



174 EXTORTIONS OF MENIALS. 

prayed the court that he might be brought in guilty, as he 
had no money to pay the fees ; expecting, from the nature 
of the offence of which he had been accused, that if con- 
demned to suffer its penalty in prison, his chance of getting 
out would be much better than to go in for the fees ! 

" Is it law ?" said Mr. Hawes, M. P. 

Mr. Dawson, the clerk of the peace, said, " It is imme- 
morial usage." (Hear, hear.) "Hear! hear!" This is 
genuine English feeling. " Custom is Gospel," no matter 
how absurd ; no matter how unjust or cruel. I do not mean 
by this to impeach the character of the community. No. 
It is real, substantial English virtue that keeps things 
steady ; so that you may know what to depend upon ; and it 
operates generally for public good. " Immemorial usage," 
in any civilized country, if it concerns everybody, and re- 
lates to practical, every-day interests, is generally right, and 
may be presumed so. Hence, if an English custom, being 
called in question before an English court, social or author- 
itative, be proved "immemorial," — "Hear! hear!" — and it 
will be hard to get it changed. 

But if a custom be very limited in its application, as in 
the present instance, it is not of course to be presumed right. 

"Can this fee be recovered]" said Mr. Hawes. "Cer- 
tainly," said Mr. Lawson. It was therefore agreed to ap- 
point a committee " to take into consideration the legality 
of the custom," &c. ; and they will no doubt come to the 
proper decision, as in Middlesex. But the custom is law 
prescriptive, until annulled by the proper authority. It is 
forty or fifty years old ; and the principle that makes it valid 
is the same with the argument of Sir Robert Peel for the 
inviolability of church property, namely, " that it is even 
three hundred years" since another church was robbed of 
the wherewithal to endow the present Established Church 
of England, if, indeed, it be robbery for the state to touch it 
now. 

If we inquire into the reasons of this said fee of ten shil- 
lings and sixpence, extorted from an innocent man, for the 
crime of being innocent, in addition to his injury by the loss 
of time and character in having been arraigned, and thus 
rendered suspicious — an injury not easily repaired — it will 
open one of the hidden secrets of corruption in society. It 
was doubtless founded on the helpless condition of the un- 
fortunate ! A poor and innocent man has been frightened 
by the grasp of law, and so far threatened to be ruined. 
On examination, however, he is acquitted. In the flutter 
of his excited and wild pulsations, when reason and self- 
possession have lost their seat, grateful to be rescued on any 
terms, this cormorant of justice — justice miscalled — this un- 
feeling wretch, is permitted to add insult to misfortune, and 
approach this unmanned man with the inexorable demand 



STONEHENGE. 175 

— " Sir, you cannot go hence till you have paid me ten shil- 
lings and sixpence !" And he must pay it, or be committed 
to prison ! He is too poor, and has too little influence to 
make an appeal to society; and for forty or fifty years 
this practice has prevailed in British courts of justice ! — a 
practice first introduced to add to the perquisites of an offi- 
cial menial, and afterward becoming the permanent right 
of the station ; so that it cannot be taken away without fur- 
nishing an equivalent. It was foreseen, that ninety-nine 
times in a hundred, if not nine hundred and ninety-nine in 
a thousand, the poor man, or his friends, would contrive to 
pay the demand, however difficult it might be, without re- 
monstrance. " I have lived too long," said a great and good 
man, " to wonder at any thing." 



STONEHENGE. 

Stonehenge is about eight miles from Salisbury, situated 
in the heart of Salisbury Plain, and standing isolated in all 
the grandeur of its mysterious and hitherto unexplained his- 
tory. It is a truly sublime object — sublime in itself, as fil- 
ling the mind with wonder, where the stones came from, 
how they could have been brought there, and placed in their 
relative positions! The heaviest columns are rated at "sev- 
enty tons — the whole number being ninety-four, as near as 
can be ascertained, although the present confusion of the 
assemblage renders it difficult to count them. It is sup- 
posed to have been a Druidical temple, where human sacri- 
fices were offered — a superstition as sublime as it was dia- 
bolical, as mysterious as cruel ! The rude grandeur of the 
work demonstrates the rudeness and barbarity of the age. 
There are no indications that this place of sacrifice was 
ever enclosed by walls, or covered by a roof. It is en- 
circled indeed by the traces of a ditch and a corresponding 
embankment, and the columnar ranges of stones were set 
up in circular lines, at greater distance from each other than 
the spaces occupied. About half an acre is enclosed by the 
circumvallation, and a quarter of an acre occupied by the 
temple itself. The only junction of the structure, if struc- 
ture it can be called, appears to have been the resting of the 
amazing cross and horizontal slabs on the largest columns, 
about twenty feet high and fifteen asunder, most of which 
have fallen, some are inclined, and a few onl|f stand erect. 
Tenons were left on the top of the perpendicular columns, 
entering grooves of the horizontal pieces laid upon them. 
It would indeed be easy enough for the mechanical powers 
of this age to set up an edifice like this ; but the rudeness 



176 STONEHENGE. 

of the work does not naturally suggest the knowledge and 
application of such powers at the time of its creation. 
Hence the wonder. 

It. is said by some, that the same material is not to be 
found in the island. It is incredible, however, that these 
immense rocks should have been shipped; and almost 
equally incredible, that they should have been transported 
by land any considerable distance ; yet they were never 
found in this vicinity. Many of them are reduced to nearly 
right angles, but more exhibit a smooth, or properly plane 
surface. There is nothing like the skill of masonry be- 
stowed upon them. They were, perhaps, purposely left in 
this rude state, as emblematic of the stern and inexorable 
rites which they were set up to witness. The supposed 
altar-piece lies in the centre, imbedded in the earth, and 
directly behind it two of the largest columns once support- 
ed the heaviest cross-beam — but the columns have inclined 
and dropped their burden. 

There are other relics of the kind in the island, but none 
so stupendous. All the parts of a similar temple have been 
transferred at great expense from the Island of Jersey, and 
set up on the estate of a private gentleman at Henley-on- 
Thames, now the property of Mr. Maitland. I stumbled 
upon it in rambling over the grounds with a friend, and 
found it perched 911 a hill some four or five hundred feet 
above the bed of the Thames. It was brought over by a 
former governor of the island, Gen. Conway, who then own- 
ed Park Place, on which it now stands. It is of course a 
small chapel, compared with Stonchenge on Salisbury Plain 
— but many of the stones are of several tons weight. They 
are rude and shapeless. 

There are numerous marks of ancient military fortifica- 
tions scattered over Salisbury Plain ; and tumuli of the an- 
cient dead, such as are to be found in the western regions 
of our own country, lift up their heads in various quarters, 
and sometimes in groups. 

My sensations in visiting Stonehenge were the result of 
a singular combination of the grateful recollections of Mrs. 
More's Shepherd and his family, and of the actual scenes 
before me. " The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain" was con- 
tinually ringing in my ear, and all his history passing in re- 
view before me, as I rode over these undulating, naked, and 
apparently boundless fields, among the tumuli and traces of 
ancient fortifications, and came at last to gaze upon and 
admire this wonder-exciting and unaccountable relic of a 
barbarous age and bloody superstition. What a demonstra- 
tion of man's susceptibilities of religious affections, of a 
sense of guilt, of his need of atonement, and of the dreadful 
errors into which he may be plunged without the guidance 
of Divine revelation ! 



BRISTOL RIOTS. 177 



TRAGICAL DEATH OF COLONEL BRERETON. 

I xdon, Jan. 16, 1832. — The Bristol tragedy has presented 
another sad development. Col. Brereton, the command- 
ant of the troops stationed at Bristol at the time of the riot, 
being on trial before a court-martial, under charge of de- 
fect of duty on that occasion, anticipating the judgment of 
this tribunal, has suddenly made his appeal to the tribunal 
of his God, and compelled his prosecutors and judges here 
to a solemn and awful pause. On Friday morning last, at 
3 o'clock, he shot himself through the heart, by his own 
pistol, in his bedchamber. The announcement of this in- 
telligence has, if possible, shed a deeper gloom over the 
public mind, than the outrages and massacres out of which 
it has grown — and awakened sympathy of a different kind 
indeed" but not less than that which was divided and wasted 
over a whole community. It is individual misfortune, after 
all, which chains our attention, provokes our tears, and mak»s 
us feel the weakness of those who have suffered, and suffer 
with them. CoL Brereton's fate is absolutely and in the 
highest degree tragical. " Truth is strange — stranger than 
fiction." 

A weak, irresolute, inefficient magistracy — not made for 
such a time as the Bristol riots — when the scene was all 
over, feeling themselves oppressed by the public reprobation 
Concentrating upon them from all quarters, had found it ne- 
cessary to defend themselves by sacrificing one of their fel- 
low-beings. And how could an individual withstand such a 
host, before such a tribunal, and in such circumstances, con- 
fronted by witnesses who were at least deeply interested, 
by a common sympathy, in the condemnation of the accu- 
sed 1 Admitting the exact verity of every several allegation 
— (of which there were eleven of formidable show,) yet had 
the prisoner done otherwise — had he pursued the course 
directly opposite, it would probably have been a certain and 
quicker ruin to himself personally, and brought down upon 
him the rage of those who now coolly sought his destruc- 
tion, under the name of justice. What could a man in such 
a situation have done 1 The exigencies of the Bristol riots 
could not have been anticipated. It is easy enough, indeed, 
since the scene has become a subject of review, to tell what 
might have been done to avert the calamity. Who could 
not do this 1 But in the midst of the confusion and general 
consternation of that fearful and threatening hour, when the 
magistrates themselves retired to their chambers and barri- 
H3 



178 TRAGICAL END OF 

caded their doors for fear of what should come ; when the 
military could not act decisively without orders from the 
municipal authorities, themselves undecided and knowing 
not what to do ; when an exasperated mob of thirty thousand 
pressed from all quarters upon the little band of seventy or 
eighty men, this being all the force unde*Col. Brereton's 
command ; when the vulgar hatred towards the military was 
known and felt, and the first determined charge was likely 
to provoke the immense and intoxicated rabble to a general 
and desperate conflict, to overwhelm and annihilate the 
troops — what could be done ? As has since been proved at 
Lyons, there was every probability that the mob in extremi- 
ties would prove victorious. Who would assume the sole 
discretion, the whole responsibility of a desperate encounter 
in such circumstances 1 If the colonel had acted without 
being authorized from the magistracy, and saved the city, 
it doubtless would have ruined him personally ; because the 
magistrates would have been able to show — the present his- 
tory out of existence — that it was unnecessary for him to 
assume such responsibility ; and when the authority did 
come, it came too late. Because Col. Brereton did not work 
miracles — because he did not save the city, when the ma- 
gistrates would not let him save it, in spite of themselves — 
the only atonement which they could render to the world 
for their delinquencies — was the ruin of this man. 

Commissions are demanded and issued, the tribunal is 
created, and the colonel is brought a prisoner to its bar, to 
answer and defend himself against charges and witnesses 
got up to defend the magistracy and town of Bristol, and to 
vindicate their character before the world. His fate is evi- 
dent at the first glance, to himself as well as to all others. 
He must fall. He must be cashiered, disgraced, his name 
covered with infamy, and himself, after thirty-three years of 
service in the army, in various parts of the world, without 
reproach, and to the establishment of his credit as a gallant 
officer, thrown upon the world, with two helpless and de- 
pendant babes, without any qualifications to enter upon a 
new course of life. His habits were only those of a soldier, 
and all his sympathies confined to those circles in society 
in which a soldier is accustomed to move. ***** 
No sooner had the smoke of the Bristol burnings passed 
off, than a dark and menacing cloud came over the colonel's 
prospects of future life. And every day it grew thicker and 
darker. His trial came, but no relief. A darker and still 
more threatening cloud filled the whole sky before him. 
And in a sad and desperate hour he resolves to cut short 
the investigation, and throw himself beyond the decisions 
of an earthly tribunal. It was the anniversary of the death 
of a beloved wife, three years deceased— or not unlikely 
supposed by him to be so, although he had erred in his 



COLONEL BRERETON. 179 

reckoning by one day. In the Bible, by which the Jury of 
Inquest were sworn, was found this record, by the colonel's 
own hand: — " 14th of January, 1829, 3 o'clock in the morn- 
ing, my beloved wife Olivia died at my house in Clifton- 
wood." On the 13th instant, precisely at 3 o'clock a. m., 
the fatal catastrophe occurred. And it is not unlikely that 
it had some connexion with the death of his wife, by that 
romantic, and partly superstitious character, which is apt to 
characterize men of his profession. Surely he could hardly 
fail to think of her, when he had her children with him, and 
was about to leave them unprotected on the world — when 
himself had resolved to follow her, unbidden of his Maker, 
into the same eternity, and hoped, perhaps, to meet her there. 
In the wildness and hurry of his thoughts, he had probably 
mistaken the date by one day, and supposed he had chosen 
the anniversary of her departure. He certainly selected 
the very hour, 3 o'clock in the morning. 

It is not difficult to imagine the general character of the 
reasonings in Col. Brereton's mind, which suggested and 
framed the dreadful purpose. He anticipated his degrada- 
tion, and he had not the courage to brave the consequences. 
He knew what this world was, but he had not taken care to 
think duly of the next. His religion was, peradventure, the 
honour of his profession, and the comfortable emoluments 
of that profession its reward. Take away these, and exist- 
ence to him is no longer valuable — life is intolerable — he 
resolves, in the phrensy of his disappointment, to put an 
everlasting extinguisher upon both — or at least to plunge 
himself into the regions of " that untried being," which will 
certainly terminate the troubles of the present, and which, 
not unlikely, from the nature of his education and the habits 
of his life, wears little but the aspects of romance ; or which, 
perhaps, in his creed, is stricken for ever from the records 
of a conscious existence. There are indeed strong plead- 
ings of nature, the feelings of a father to hold him back ; 
but these very feelings, in his madness, urge him on. He 
will not stay to witness the consequences of his own degra- 
dation upon his offspring. When he returns to his habita- 
tion in the evening, resolved upon his purpose, he will not 
visit the nursery, as usual, to see those children. He re- 
fuses to go and kiss his babes, lest he should still find a 
charm to bind him to this world. Their innocent prattle 
and affectionate mien might shake his purpose. They might 
run into his arms, and say, " Father, what is the matter % 
Don't be sorry, father." They might rehearse to him their 
nursery adventures of the day, and demand in return a like 
rehearsal of what had befallen their father ; and he would 
be obliged to feel, that whatever else was lost, all was not 
lost — that if he could not count upon the honours of the 
world, he might rely upon the affections of his children. 



180 FUNERAL OF CLEMENTI. 

Or he might have found them asleep, and, as he knelt to 
give them a last embrace, he would not unlikely have seen 
the image of their mother resting on their faces, and he 
might seem to hear her voice of rebuke from the invisible 
world, as conscious of his purpose, saying to him, " I left 
these babes in charge with thee ; and wilt thou, rashly and 
uncalled by heaven, desert them, and leave them on the 
cruel mercies of an unfeeling world 1" But he would not 
encounter such a trial. " On Thursday night," said the 
housekeeper, in her testimony before the inquest, " he did 
not go into the nursery to kiss and bid good-night to his 
children — a thing which he had never failed to do before." 
Poor and rash man ! It is likely he had never learned, 
that religion has a consolation and a healing balm for such 
a wounded spirit even as his ! He had moved in a circle 
of this world which could never appreciate either the im- 
portance or the power of religion in such a day of trial. 
Blind and deaf to the future — to his after being — he felt only 
the present. He consulted not his conscience in relation 
to God — he thought only of his honour in relation to man r 
and of honour measured by a false estimate in every partic- 
ular. What a fearful change of being has he made I 
What a plunge ! We will not — we dare not follow him to 
that tribunal to which he has made his last appeal. It were 
a relief to think that madness had unsettled his mind, and 
diminished the responsibilities of the wild scene of that 
dreadful night. To flee from man, he ushers himself, un- 
called, forbidden, into the presence of his God, and leaves 
his children orphans.* 



FUNERAL OF CLEMENTI. 

I stood on the orchestra, by the side of the organ, in 
Westminster Abbey. Every thing beneath, around, and 
above, whether we regard the moral or the artificial, was 
grand — sublime. That ancient and magnificent Gothic edi- 
fice was my canopy and enclosure — the whole internal of 
which, including the long ranges of lofty and massive col- 
umns, through the line of the nave and of the arms of the 
transept, and back to the altar, and over the altar to the 
Chapel of Henry VII., wa?3 all within the scope of a coup 
cToeil. The columns, so lofty and grand, and running in the 
lines of a sort of endless perspective, seemed to support the 
arches of heaven. The illusion is the easiest possible. The 

* Two daughters — one three, and the other six years old. 



FUNERAL OF CLEMENTI. 181 

mind is at once at sea, and swimming in it without effort 
and in ecstasy. 

Around, clustering in all directions, and of various forms, 
on the pavement, on the walls, and some borne aloft on 
wings of sculptured marble, are the monuments of England's 
renowned and mighty dead — of her heroes, her statesmen, 
her nobles, her saints, her poets, her musicians, her literati. 
It is the sanctuary of religion too — the holy place where 
man for ages has lifted his thoughts from earth to heaven, 
and held communion with his God. For ages holy men 
have worshipped there ; holy men lie in quiet slumber there, 
awaiting the resurrection of the just. Beneath those pave- 
ments, under those walls, and without under the soil, on 
which the building rests, are entombed a vast congregation 
of the good and the bad, who shall rise together for judg- 
ment at the last day. 

Perched on the organ-loft, in the midst of such a scene, 
thus canopied, thus walled in, surrounded by objects of such 
grave meditation, and in the midst of a living throng of hu- 
man beings, assembled for the most solemn and affecting 
of all services, the burial of the dead — I stood with a friend 
to see what might be seen, and hear what might be heard. 

From the choir, the west screen of which was directly 
under our feet, were drawn two ranges of white-robed 
choristers, stretching through the length of the nave to the 
great western door, with an open space between them, press- 
ed on all sides by the dense and expecting throng. 

At last, the two folds of the massive door were thrown 
open, and the funeral train of Clementi entered in solemn 
procession, preceded by a black and waving forest of plumes 

" Lofty and slow it moves to meet the tomb, 
While weighty sorrow nods on every plume." 

It seemed to say, " give place to the dead, and be still." 
Immediately the organ answered to the sympathies of the 
hour, first with its soft and careful expressions, and then 
with its loud and thundering peal ; and the mingling voices 
of the choristers below, turning and moving towards the 
altar, sustained and filled the swelling notes, till every arch 
seemed vocal with living harmony. Well did it become 
him, who had devoted the years of his long life to fill these 
lower spheres with music, to be sung so sweetly to his 
grave, to his rest, to his heaven — if charity might hope he 
had gone to heaven. Of that, I know not, ask not. Every 
note of this service was enough to make death sweet, the 
grave an enviable doom, and all beyond a bright and hope- 
ful condition. What is this art of man, which can so melt 
down the soul and transport it into ecstasy ] And if the an- 
thems of earth are such, what must those of heaven be 1 

And they all marched (the white-robed singers exhibiting 
16 



182 FUNERAL OP CLEMENTI. 

a striking contrast to the dark procession in rear), — with a 
slow and solemn pace, scarcely moving, through the nave 
into the choir, singing as they came, till the dead was placed 
before the altar. The choristers in their stations still kept 
up the anthem — now soft, now loud — now a part, and now 
in chorus full — at one time, as in distant, angel whispers, 
and then as if all heaven had burst, upon our ears its joyous 
welcome of a saint arrived. The predominant and perva- 
ding characteristic of the music, seemed to be deeply, most 
pathetically, and indescribably plaintive, as expressive of 
the troubles of life's troublous scenes, and above all, of the 
conflict and pains of life's end, as involving the agonies of 
dissolution and the affliction of survivers ; — and all along, 
mingled with these sentiments, the sweet and heavenly har- 
monies seemed to give earnest of a sweet and heavenly 
rest. Christianity has taught man how to sing his troubles, 
and in the same voice to sing his triumphs — in the same 
anthem to deplore his present calamities and anticipate his 
succeeding and everlasting joys. 

The entire burial service was performed by the choir, 
with the exception of a little reading of the Scriptures. 
When the procession moved to the place of interment in 
the cloisters on the south side of the Abbey, they still kept 
up the music as they went, and literally sung the great 
musician into his grave. Would that thy heaven, dementi, 
might be as sweet as thy burial anthem ! 

One of my numerous reflections on this occasion was : 
that man, who knows his own feelings in joy and grief, give 
him time and opportunity, will learn how to express them 
by the admirable works of his own art. The deepest, the 
most religious, and the most awful passions of his soul are 
not beyond his reach, nor beyond the power of his repre- 
sentation. In nature, or in art, he will find a type — some 
shape, or sound, or some combination of things foreign to 
himself, that shall show himself, speak to his inmost soul, 
and challenge all his possible sympathies. And if so much 
can be effected in the present imperfect state of society, 
while men are no better — what may not be expected when 
all men shall be good"? — If the arts of unholy men can so 
ape and feign goodness — can so frame the beau ideal of 
moral excellences, and so combine their images, as to claim 
the fellowship and promote the edification of the best feel- 
ings — what may not be expected of human art, when its 
own masters shall be pure as itself? 

It is doubtful, perhaps, whether the moral power vested 
in the finer and nobler arts of man, as an auxiliary for the 
attainment of the most exalted and the holiest of human 
society, is duly appreciated. The nature of man is always 
susceptible of the power of music, poetry, painting, and 
other kindred arts ; — and for this reason, that God, having 



EXCURSION IN SCOTLAND. 1S3 

filled the world and the universe with these qualities, has 
adapted the nature of man to enjoy them. And there is no 
place so full of music, so natural to song, or so attractive 
ill its beautiful forms, as heaven itself. 



EXCURSION IN SCOTLAND. 

First impressions on entering Scotland — Scotch national character — 
ilolyrood House — Charles X. — Duke de Bordeaux — Dutchess de Herri 
— Queen Mary — Edinburgh — Stirling — Castle Campbeil — Rumbling 
Bridge and Devil's Mill — Affecting Death of a Brother and Sister — 
I » rth — Dunsinane Hill and Birnam Wood — Dunkeld — Grampian Hills 
— The Highlanders — Bagpipes — Inverness — Caledonian Canal — iNep- 
tune's Staircase — Ben Nevis — Staffa and Fingal's Cave, &c. 

I remarked on my first entrance into the territories north 
of the Tweed, that the csnratenance and character of man 
in that region made impressions upon my mind indicating 
another race than the English. And the physical features 
of North Britain are as diverse from those oi' the South, as 
is the character of the men to be found there — wild, stern, 
and hoary. A people born and bred among such hills and 
vales, familiar with such mountains and lakes, challenging 
the stronger emotions of the soul, and the bolder flights of 
fancy, ought to be extraordinary. I never looked out upon 
the faoe of that country, but my mind was quickened — 
equally by what strikes the eye, and by historical associa- 
tions. Scotland would be venerable in her naked majesty, 
in the eye of a seraph spirit, who on wings should make 
survey of her face, spread out to the heavens, even in des- 
olate loneliness — if that spirit might be supposed to have any 
thing of a taste akin to man for the beauties of nature. But 
she is venerable for the projects which have been conceiv- 
ed by the mind of man, and for the scenes in which man 
has enacted a part, She has been the cradle of warrior 
chieftains, whose exploits in heathen story would have giv- 
en them rank. among the gods — and even as it is, they are 
famed as more than mortal. The wild and romantic rhap- 
sodies of Ossian had their natural occasions and just provo- 
cations in the physical and moral of the regions where they 
were conceived. They were not the mere creatures of 
fancy. Human beings, tenanting such a part of the world, 
must be bold and aspiring — must be men of high endeav- 
our, and sometimes of mighty achievements. When war 
was the fashion, they must have been heroic in arms. 
When Christianity addressed itself to their hearts, they felt 
its power. When poetry has moved them, they have sung 



184 SCOTCH CHARACTER. 

wild and sweetly, and being themselves charmed, have 
charmed the world. When chastened learning and sober 
science have challenged their attention, they have claimed 
to lead the rest of mankind — at least they will not be led. 
They are a people that go by themselves. They have a 
character of their own, and must have. They respect 
themselves, and are respected. Look at her warriors of 
times gone by, but not to be forgotten — look to her poets, 
her men of science, her metaphysicians, her theologians, 
and her universities — look to her arts and cities — and say, 
if Scotland has not a character of her own? She is not 
stamped by the rest of the world, nor by any part of it, even 
though, for want of a political importance, the world is not 
stamped by her. And it is not a little remarkable, it is an 
illustrious fact — I speak of it as a matter of fact, without 
deciding the question of its moral influence as good or bad 
— yet it is a fact, that the genius of a single man has con- 
secrated those wide regions as modern classic ground, and 
the history of that country as a classic legend. Italy and 
Greece have at this moment, if possible, less interest in the 
eye of travellers for their classic associations than the land 
which gave birth to Walter Scott. 

As notable as Scotland has made herself, it is also re- 
markable that her population should still be quoted at only 
2,365,807. The truth is, that her national and political im- 
portance having been long merged in what is courteously 
called a union with England, under the title of North Britain, 
but what is in fact a subjection to the English crown, the still 
unsubdued spirit and enterprise of her sons have sought and 
found scope for action and eminence as rivals among the 
Southrons, and for a well-earned distinction over the wide- 
spread regions of British empire, on which the sun never 
sets. They fought for national independence till they could 
fight no longer ; since which, they have held on the race for 
pre-eminence over their neighbours of another kind. In in- 
tellectual greatness, in moral virtue, in commercial tact — in 
literature and science — in the pulpit, in the forum, in par- 
liament, and on the bench — in the drudgery of common life, 
in affairs of state — -at home and abroad — on the sea and on 
the field — whenever brought into competition with the Eng- 
lish in any of these pursuits and in all others, they have 
generally excelled and carried off the palm. 

Once the Scotchman loved his home — and still he loves 
it, however far away, in the undying affections that are 
garnered up in the recollections of what he has left behind 
— in the physical beauties of his native regions, in the en- 
dearments of the domestic relations, in the romantic history 
and poetry of his country, in the religion and patriotism of 
his ancestors — in all that imagination, and philosophy, and 
filial piety have made him heir to, In every region of the 



HOLYROOD HOUSE. 185 

globe, and among all shades of national and individual char- 
acter — he is a Scotchman still and true. But so it is : " an 
Englishman is never happy till he gets in trouble ; an Irish- 
man is never in peace till he gets fighting ; and the Scotch- 
man is never at home till he gets abroad." Does this seem- 
ing paradox need an explanation ? He who finds the 
Scotchman everywhere, has it ; the Irish character is too 
well known to require it; and the characteristic fortitude 
of the English, which best develops their patience when 
they have got to a ne plus ultra of difficulty, may answer for 
them. 

HOLYROOD HOUSE. 

" Will you wait and see the Duke de Bordeaux ?" said 
the porter, as I asked his services to show me the Palace 
of Holyrood in August, 1832. 

" How soon will he be out 1" 

" Immediately. His carriage is waiting, as you see." 

" How old is the duke !" 

" Twelve — past." 

We met, not only within the gates, but in the very court 
of the palace. The few who happened to be standing there, 
uncovered, as the young duke approached, supported by 
two gentlemen, who assisted him into the carriage, and 
took seats with him, and the carriage drove off. 

Charles X. was not in. I was told, " If you meet a tall 
man with a long nose, he is the ex-king of France." I have 
met several men answering to this description since, but I 
am not sure that either of them was he. 

The Dutchess de Berri, mother of the Duke de Bordeaux 
— alias of Henry V. of France — alias of that little boy, was 
said to be at that time in London, on her way to the repose 
of Holyrood, after having endured the fatigues and anxieties 
of her invasion of France, and of her attempt to dethrone 
Louis Philip, and place upon the head of her son the crown 
of the Capets. Poor woman! The French are said to be 
a fanciful and romantic people, and the Dutchess de Berri is 
frightfully ugly. They were not charmed. 1 suppose she 
had been advised by Chateaubriand's letter, in which he 
says to her, " The Dutchess de Berri will find neither a 
throne nor a grave in France. She will be made prisoner, 
condemned, and pardoned. Judge, madam, whether this 
will be agreeable." And so the Dutchess de Berri was ex- 
pected every day at Holyrood. She did not, however, make 
her appearance, as her errors have since developed. 

By the generous hospitality of the King and Parliament 
of Great Britain, Holyrood House has been made a refuge 
for the exiled kings of the French branch of the Bourbons. 
And there the family were residing in dignified retirement, 
when I visited the place, expecting (poor things) by that 
10* 



186 QUEEN MARY. 

same infatuation which lost them their throne, to return and 
occupy it again. And even that, peradventure, is possible ; 
for who can tell what shall come next in France 1 

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

Holyrood House is especially interesting, as having been 
occupied by the unfortunate Queen Mary, and as the scene 
of the Rizzio tragedy. The palace lies on the east of Edin- 
burgh, directly between Calton Hill on the north, and Salis- 
bury Crag on the south, down in the lowest bosom of the 
city, just without the meanest and filthiest part of it. It is 
built on three sides of a square, the west side or line towards 
the city being a wall and gate. Within this square of course 
is an open court, the inner fronts and each side at each story 
being run with spacious and convenient corridors, giving 
free access from and to every part of the palace within the 
court, without exposure to the weather. The building has 
nothing remarkable in its external features, being in all re- 
spects inferior in the style of its architecture to hundreds of 
houses in the new town of Edinburgh. At the northeast 
angle without, are the ruins of the ancient chapel, quite pic- 
turesque and romantic, the walls only standing. 

Having seen the little fellow, Master the Duke, drive off 
from the gate of the palace, I pursued my way to see what 
might be seen within. Of course, the apartments appro- 
priated to the use of the ex-king of France and his family 
were not open to visiters. The gallery of ancient paintings 
and the apartments of Queen Mary — the very apartments 
which she occupied, and the very furniture which she used, 
and the very work of her own fingers, all in statu quo, as she 
used and left them — (as nearly so as possible, making al- 
lowance for such changes in arrangement as might be con- 
venient for the purposes of keeping and of exhibition) — 
these, as might well be imagined, were the things most at- 
tractive. 

And there, suspended on the walls of the picture-gallery, 
large as life, were the portraits of the Scottish monarchs. 
There was Robert Bruce in his armour, whose eye, fired 
with purpose of revenge, seemed to be fixed on the distant 
camp of the Southrons. And there was Mary, in most unfit 
society for such a woman — the tender among the rude. 
Would that her feminine virtues, associated with the charms 
of her person and the subduing grace of her manners, could 
be seen apart from her offences. Alas ! while we weep at 
her fate, too cruel for such delicacy, we weep also at her 
weaknesses. She was a woman — in the midst of temptation. 

Royal state rooms of the 19th century must not be thought 
of when we enter the state rooms of three centuries agone. 
And yet such comparison is quite necessary to enable us to 
estimate the difference between the two. It is by this that 



QUEEN MARY. 187 

our amazement swells big as the vanity of the age in which 
we live. And really — is it possible, that Queen Mary could 
have been proud of such chairs and of such tables 1 — or con- 
tented with such a bed and with such furniture 1 It makes 
one think of the coarse woollen stockings that Queen 
Elizabeth wore at court, and of her quilted petticoat, the 
roughness of which would make one shudder to think of, as 
would the filing of a saw. And the needlework, too, done 
by the fingers of Queen Mary, would make a fair subject of 
a downright scolding lecture from a common school-mis- 
tress, if one of her ragged and untaught girls should bring 
her such a sample. And the wicker-basket, once used as 
the depository of the linen of the infant babe, afterward 
James VI. of Scotland and I. of England, but, that it is a 
precious relic of such a time and circumstance, might as well 
be sold for the use of the fishmonger women of Edinburgh. 
Have ye ever seen a great-great-grandfather's chair, ready 
to tumble down if ye sit upon it ? — or his desk, as inconveni- 
ent as the rusty iron buckles of his shoes 1 — Have ye seen 
a great-great-grandmothers high-post bed, with all its tas- 
selled, quilted, and various-coloured furniture — the reposing 
frame of which was not so lofty that persons of high stature 
must have had a ladder to get upon it, as in these days — but 
so humble that a dwarf must stoop to find it ? Have ye 
seen any specimens of antiquated tapestry, the devices of 
which would make a clown laugh outright, that its figures 
were all done so badly ? Have ye seen any old garret full 
of rusty knight's armour, with boots and spurs, any one suit 
of which might well be supposed to make a horse groan un- 
der its burden ? Add to all this every kind of goods and chat- 
tels necessary to a princely mansion, correspondent in 
quality and shapes with all these — and then allow that I 
have amused myself here with a small degree of colouring — 
it must also be allowed, that I have been well provoked to it 
by the actual exhibition of things, which have furnished oc- 
casion for this account. And did the royal Mary, Queen of 
the Scots, live there 1 Were these her conveniences and 
comforts 1 Was that double chair, not a bad pattern of 
which may be found in an old lumber-wagon in the back 
woods of America, made at her order, in which herself and 
stolen husband were to be crowned 1 Is that the mirror, 
twelve inches by six, before which she was accustomed to 
make her toilet] It is true, there is some gold wrought 
in all this furniture — and not a little waste of uncultivated 
fancy, in the profusion of homely and rude ornaments by 
which it was once adorned. But such as it is — and for the 
reasons that it is as it is, I had rather look upon it than 
upon all the costly show of the present state apartments of 
the castle of William IV. at Windsor. I am sure that Queen 
Mary once tenanted those apartments — that she slept upon 



188 EDINBURGH. 

that bed — that she sat in that chnir— that she worked that 
piece of embroidery by her own hands — that there she en- 
tertained her guests, alas ! not always lawful. 

And there in that little corner, scarce twelve feet square, 
was she surprised by Darnley and Ruthven, who, with their 
murderous train, came upon her by a private passage, now 
open to inspection, and seized upon her favourite, David 
Rizzio, sitting in her company and at her table : and, in spite 
of the interposition of her authority, in violation of the sa- 
credness of her character, against all the tenderness of her 
womanhood and the peculiar delicacy of her condition, and 
her beseeching remonstrances, plunged the fatal dagger in 
his bosom before her eyes, while he hung upon the skirts 
of her garments for protection ; and then, dragging him into 
an adjoining apartment, left him weltering in the blood 
which flowed from the wounds inflicted by their ruthless 
vengeance ! The stains of the vital current are now visible 
on the floor. Surely it is no marvel, that her son, born some 
four months after this tragical event, always shuddered and 
hid his face at the sight of a drawn sword. Those were 
rude times in which the unfortunate Mary lived; and that 
was a rude day which lost her head, that had worn a crown 
in a sea of troubles— of troubles which in no small part her 
own imprudence brought upon her. While her fate will 
for ever claim and receive the sympathy of those who read 
her story, her faults shall not remain unwept. 

EDINBURGH. 

Edinburgh is indebted for not a little of its imposing char- 
acter to the very rare physical features of its site — to the 
hills and mountains, near and remote, with which it is sur- 
rounded — and to that sweet vision, the Frith of Forth, 
which runs up and hides itself among the hills, and de- 
scending spreads out its floods wider and wider, till they 
are lost in the North Sea. There are extraordinary natural 
and geographical features in this town and all around it, 
almost without number, any one of which would make a 
city remarkable. The town itself lies upon three remark- 
able and lofty ridges, running east and west, and of course 
must have in its bosom two corresponding, deep, and pre- 
cipitous ravines — or ravines that once were — but now most 
usefully and thoroughly appropriated. The stranger, pas- 
sing from the new town, and crossing a stone bridge to the 
old, looks down upon his right, expecting to see the bosom 
of a river, and lo ! instead, a neat, well-provided, and bus- 
tling market. On the left, instead of shipping, he looks over 
the tops of a sea of houses, at the farther extremity of 
which, on the same low ground, and directly under the 
brow of a perpendicular and lofty crag, lies Holyrood Pal- 
ace. Advancing over the middle ridge, through the heart 



EDINBURGH. 189 

of the old town, and past the university, in the distance of 
a quarter of a mile, he comes to another bridge, and look- 
ing down to see a river and shipping, he sees instead a 
paved street lined with shops, the stories of which are as 
far below as they are above him, and all exhibiting the 
most active bustle of trade — and he exclaims : Is it possi- 
ble there is a town beneath this town — and another race of 
beings down yonder ! For what have they to do with those 
above, and how can they get up ? 

Back again to the new town (although we have not got 
half through the old one yet), and there is Calton Hill at the 
east end of the first street, and but a few rods from the 
bridge— lifting up its head in mountain pride — on the summit 
of which is an observatory and camera-obscura — a lofty 
monument to Nelson, one to Play fair, one to Burns, and 
one to the folly of the nation — because, being begun, it is 
likely never to be finished. From this pinnacle, one may 
peep down into the court and apartments of Holyrood, 
which lie directly under the feet, survey the city in all its 
extent and undulations — Leith, with all the villages along the 
Frith ; look over the waters to the hills and mountains on 
the north far away — and so to the west and south. Over 
Holyrood, just without and impending the city, is a moun- 
tain crag — almost exactly such another thing as East Rock, 
near New-Haven, Connecticut, but twice as high, and much 
more bold in the form and knitting of its brow. Very near 
the crag, and over it directly, is Arthur's Seat, 800 feet high, 
and very exactly after the pattern of Mount Tom, near 
Northampton, Massachusetts. On the central ridge, in the 
middle of the city, the castle, like the mighty elephant of 
the east standing under his armed tower full of armed men, 
erects its huge dimensions and lofty battlements, overawing 
the town and all the region round, itself familiar with the 
clouds, by reason of the camel-bunch prominence on which 
it rests, and which lifts it up on high. There too are the 
Pentland Hills on the south, in all their variegated profile — 
and the beautiful and regularly inclined plane, supporting 
the new town, and stretching out to the Frith on the north. 
Everywhere, in and about Edinburgh, there are command- 
ing and interesting views, by reason of the irregularities of 
the face of the country. 

The City of Edinburgh is built of stone throughout. This 
material' gives to the city an air of fitness to endure for ever- 
lasting ages. The new town, as it is called, and as it is in 
fact, lies on the north of the principal ravine, and is alto- 
gether admirable for architectural magnificence, for the 
spaciousness of its streets, and for the extent of its public 
squares, or gardens, as they are termed. The ground of 
the new town swells up from the ravine between itself and 
Castle Ridge for the distance of fifty rods perhaps, and then, 



190 EDINBURGH. 

forming a graceful curve, on which is built a principal street 
running east and west in a line with the ridge, it declines on 
an easy and beautiful plain to the north, from any part of 
which and in any street, except a wall intervene, the wide 
plain below, the shores and bosom of the Frith two to three 
miles distant, the country, hills, and mountains far beyond 
— all come directly under the eye. In every street running 
north and south, and at every door and window on those 
streets, some very extended rural and mountainous, min- 
gled with a water prospect, may bo enjoyed. Indeed, there 
is scarcely any part of Edinburgh, old town or new, where 
some peep may not be had at a distant or elevated object, 
at some commanding eminence, or enchanting prospect. 
If one is walking in the very bed of its lowest grounds, 
there is the castle or Calton Hill, or the Crag, or Arthur's 
Seat, or all together ; there, too, is the piling up of house 
upon house, upon the sides of which may be counted at 
least ten stories. There are also public edifices of various 
sorts — steeples, spires, and monuments in honour of the 
illustrious dead. 

The style of building at Edinburgh is generally a pattern 
of good taste ; one does not wish it to be otherwise. 1 of 
course speak of those parts where taste has been attempt- 
ed; and they are not few. There is not a single prin- 
cipal street in the new town — a section large enough, I 
should think, for 50,000 inhabitants — which does not aston- 
ish a stranger in walking through, on account of the unin- 
terrupted line of superior and imposing forms of architec- 
ture, which everywhere command his attention. This is a 
palace ; that is a palace ; every house seems a palace. 
"Edinburgh is a city of palaces." 

Steeples and spires in Edinburgh are not frequent, and 
none of them very remarkable. St. George's is the St. 
Paul's of Edinburgh. St. Andrew's is a fine steeple. Lord 
Melville's monument is not less conspicuous, and little less 
elevated. St. Giles, the cathedral, is not worth mention- 
ing. St. Stephen's, at the bottom of Frederick-street, is a 
perfection of architectural beauty, for a thing of such small 
expense. 

Churches named after saints in Presbyterian Scotland — 
and in connexion with the Presbyterian Kirk ! Surely they 
must have degenerated since the days of John Knox. The 
Presbyterian is the established religion of Scotland, and the 
King of Great Britain is a dissenter in his own dominions 
when he gets north of the Tweed. It is curious to see 
how intolerance is doomed to encounter intolerance. The 
Church of Rome excommunicates all the world, and in turn 
by all the world is excommunicated. The Church of Eng- 
land unchurches her legitimate daughter, the Episcopal 
Church of the United States. The Kirk of Scotland does 



STIRLING. 191 

the same to the American Presbyterian Church, although 
the same reasons cannot exist, except that we have proved 
recreant in divorcing ourselves from the state. American 
Episcopalians cannot preach in England, nor can American 
Presbyterians preach in the Kirk ol" Scotland. England un- 
churches Scotland, and Scotland England ; and both shut 
out the United States. And in the United States the same 
spirit is manifested under various names. O Pudor ! Shame 
upon us all, and upon all the world. 

STIRLING. 
The sail up the Frith of Forth is exceedingly picturesque, 
and far more advantageous, I should judge, for interesting 
views, and to obtain a knowledge of the district, than a ride 
by land. Several beautiful towns and villages show them- 
selves on the shores, or are displayed in retreat upon the 
plains and hills. A number of castles and gentlemen's seats 
are offered successively to the eye as the boat advances. 
Indeed, there is not a mile in the whole distance from Edin- 
burgh to Stirling, some 50 miles by water, but the attention 
is claimed by several conflicting and attractive objects at the 
same time. And there is not a little of shipping upon the 
Forth, enlivening the scene, and connected with the different 
port-towns, as far up as Alloa, — which is seven miles below 
Stirling by land, and 21 by the serpentine course of the river. 
Hills and mountains are visible everywhere in Scotland, as 
a matter of course. In ascending the Forth, the constantly 
and rapidly changing features of this description, some re- 
ceding and others rushing on the sight, are no small part of 
the moving panorama. We passed several ships of war of 
the largest class, lying at anchor in the river, dismantled, 
and floating up and down on the bosom of the ebbing and 
returning tide. 

The town of Stirling contains about 8,000 inhabitants, and 
lies almost exactly in the same relation to the Castle, as 
the old town of Edinburgh to Edinburgh Castle : the south, 
west, and north of the castles, in either case, make the bold 
and inaccessible promontories. In both cases also the east 
makes a gradual descent into the respective towns, and con- 
stitutes the only possible way of ingress and egress. One 
is a twin of the other in all respects, and they have both the 
same appropriation. From Edinburgh Castle, however, you 
look down upon a great and magnificent city, spread out 
from under your feet in all directions; and beyond the city, 
there is the wide and widening bosom of the Frith — plains, 
hills, and mountains, in every direction, except that of the 
.North Sea. But from the summit of Stirling's pride, one 
forgets there is a little town below. There are the actual 
regions of nature's own creation, beginning at our feet, and 
spreading out the long, wide, and fruitful valley of the Forth, 



192 BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

to the east and west, improved in the highest perfection by 
the hand of man ; and every way rising in the distance is 
some mountain profile, lodged in the clouds — all to chain 
and enchant the soul, and make it drink in pleasure, as it 
throws out its affections on the bosom of such a scene. 
The hills and mountains on the north and south are appa- 
rently so near, that the spectator, looking out from the castle 
heights, imagines, in the springtide and buoyancy of his 
feelings, that he might leap out upon them with the great- 
est ease. In the west there are mountains so remote as 
scarcely to be defined, and so high that their heads are 
often lost in the clouds. But the sweet vales below and the 
meanderings of the Forth — there is nothing like it ! Did 
ye ever see the ingenious and active child, smoothing over 
the face of the sand, and then marking with his finger, or a 
stick, the most crooked tracery imaginable — more crooked 
than the serpent, even in his folds, because more various — 
now running this way, now that, but always in a curvilinear 
form ? These fantastic tricks of children are not more wild 
than the windings of the Forth between Stirling and Alloa. 
And large portions of this strath, or interval ground, when 
I happened to be there, were checkered into whitened har- 
vest-fields, in many of which might be seen fifty, and in some 
a hundred women in one line, sweeping with the sickle a 
whole farm at a single bout ; and here and there a man fol- 
lowing behind, and binding the sheaves. 

BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

And I said, " John" {John Stewart was the name of the 
lad, 14 years of age, who led me up the banks of the Devon, 
from the village of Dollar, to show me the Caldron Linn, 
the Rumbling Bridge, and the Devil's Mill), "John," said I, 
" do you know any thing of Burns's Banks of the clear-winding 
Devon V 

" O yes — I've got it at home." 

And when he returned, I said, " John, bring me the Banks 
of the clear-winding Devon, will you 1" John ran below, and 
in a moment returned with a book of select Scottish poesy, 
all smoked and blurred, each cover and the title-page lost, 
and the corners of every leaf rolled and fumbled, as if it had 
been used to the hands and fingers of unwashed colliers for 
an age or two, and putting his finger on the place, said — 
" Here it is :" — 

The Banks of Devon. 
" How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 
With green spreading bushes and flowers blooming fair \ 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew, 



CALDRON LINN. 193 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

"0 spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 

With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 

And England triumphant display her proud rose — 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows." 

John was a sensible, clever lad, of genuine Scotch honesty, 
and soon stole a place and an interest in my affections — as 
the Scotch are wont to do. Like the Indians of our country, 
when found in their native simplicity, the Scotch have a 
peculiar manner of speech, so kind and affectionate, that it 
always makes way to the heart. Its moral power is irre- 
sistible. I know not how to define it, except in the lan- 
guage of the schools : that their speech never makes a 
cadence. When the qualities of their voice will allow, it is 
soft and mellifluous, the most natural expression of kind 
feeling ; and whenever they rest, or have done for the time, 
it is by a singular suspension of voice, the opposite of a ca- 
dence, seeming to make an appeal to and a challenge of the 
best affections of those with whom they converse. I know 
not the philosophy of it. It is a manifest violation of all 
the rules of the art of elocution — and yet there is nothing 
equal to its power. They are not aware of it themselves. 
It is a peculiarity of the people, and a universal character- 
istic. It is kindness — and it begets kindness. It is an ex- 
pression, a manner of speech, which leans upon the good 
feeling of others, and is sure to gain it. I imagine it has 
been cradled in the nursery, and reigned in the sanctuary 
of the domestic circle, where the best feelings are always in 
play — and by the power of habit has become a national 
characteristic. Of the fact, all foreigners must be witnesses. 
There is a great secret of morals in it, worthy of being de- 
veloped. I have long had my eye upon it, and can never 
forget it. It makes one feel at home with a people who 
have so much kindness in their every word. 

At the end of three miles, trudging along in the rain, as it 
poured down in most generous showers, after passing 
through the premises of a gentleman's well-improved estate, 
and at the termination of the wall of his garden, we came 
abruptly upon an impassable chasm, made by a fall of the 
Devon, eighty-eight feet — which is called most appropri- 
ately the Caldron Linn. Linn, in Scotch, means a basin, 
made by a waterfall in a stream or river — it being worn out, 
spacious and deep, by the force of a cataract. Such places 
are ordinarily called JUhing-Utims. The term Caldron I need 
not explain. The features of Caldron Linn are most extra- 
I 17 



194 CALDRON LINN. 

ordinary. The river here, when not swollen, is a Small 
brook— and yet by the boldness of the mountain regions, in 
which its sources lie, it often presents a magnificent spec- 
tacle in a copious and sudden flood. Originally at this spot, 
it would appear to have been a perpendicular cataract, 
plunging over a bridge of sharp and projecting rocks. But 
by the wear and tear of many cycles of ages, it has cut out 
a chasm some thirty to forty yards in length, and in this dis- 
tance the plunging of the river in its swollen tides, making 
the entire fall by degrees in the course of the above number 
of yards, has created the most rare exhibition of the kind. 
All persons, who have witnessed such falls at low water, 
have had occasion to observe the formation of capacious and 
circular vessels in the rock, supposed to be made by the 
violent action of stones, forced round and round by the 
water. But here the immense capacity of these formations 
is truly amazing. There is one twenty-two feet in diameter- 
as perfect as a work of art. and on one side not less than 
thirty feet deep to the surface of the water : and how deep 
the water was I could not tell. Immediately by the side of 
this is another, one fourth as large, opening into it, but di- 
vided at top by a rim, nearly worn off at the centre. There 
is still another, farther up, almost a twin to the largest. In 
the length of the chasm there are a multitude of formations 
of this description, more or less regular, and all presenting a 
smooth surface. The tout ensemble exhibits to the eye, as 
it were, the skeleton shapes of some huge monster, groaning 
and dying for ever, but never dead — for still and for ever his 
hollow moanings and expiring groans send up their voice on 
high, seeming to challenge the sympathy of every spectator, 
and of all inanimate creation around. It seems a very thing 
of life, now trying to live, and now labouring in vain to die. 
For onward still the mad torrent dashes, and plunges, and 
foams, and every caldron, through which it passes, boils, as 
if all the fires of the globe's centre were acting on its lower 
surface. 

What is marvellously singular, the last emission of these 
waters, having passed the successive caldrons, great and 
small, when it makes a final plunge into the linn below, is 
through an aperture, as exactly in the form of a lyre as art 
itself could have made. The dimensions of this figure are 
about 10 feet by 3. The spectator, looking up from below 
on this easy emission, as from the mouth of a pitcherf of the 
moaning and groaning floods from their painful constraint 
and long retention above, is relieved from the demand that 
was made on his sympathies when stooping over the awful 
chasm, and begins to persuade himself, in view of this sym- 
bol, that he is listening to the music of the spheres. For 
there is the lyre suspended aloft, and there are not wanting 
sounds and various notes — the music of the waters. 



CASTLE CAMPBELL. 195 

A mile farther up the beautiful " banks of the clear-winding 
Devon''' 1 is the Rumbling Bridge, and the everlasting clatter of 
the Devil's Mill. It was quite natural for a superstitious 
people to ascribe to such agency a mysterious, time-keeping, 
and uninterrupted clatter, coming up from a dark, unseen, 
and inaccessible cavern in the bowels .of the earth. It was 
no other, however, than the perpetual action of the waters 
of the Devon on a loose rock, which was made to impinge 
by regular strokes the face of another rock, far down in one 
of those inaccessible fissures, worn out by this river in the 
bosom of those deep and sombre glens. But this mill is now 
silenced by the recent fall of a rock, weighing not less than 
a thousand tons, which, in the age that gave name to this 
place, would probably have been ascribed to the same 
agency. The Devon, at the place of the Devil's Mill, plunges 
through deep, narrow, and winding passages, a glimpse of 
which can be got here and there with great pains and not a 
little peril. In the distance of a quarter of a mile the river 
makes a descent perhaps of 150 feet, having in the course 
of time cut its thread path in the rock so deep, that in some 
places its precipitous sides are more than a hundred feet high. 
A few rods below the Devil's Mill a bridge is thrown across, 
of 22 feet span and 120 feet above the bed of the river, which, 
from the noise of the waters in the deep and narrow chasm 
below, has obtained the name of the Rumbling bridge. So 
exceedingly compressed is the chasm made by the river here, 
that, in very many places, a man, if he could get access, could 
bestride the river with ease, standing on the rocks jutting 
from either side, and see the torrent foaming and dashing 
between his legs below him. 

CASTLE CAMPBELL 
Suffers at first view by reason of its situation at a low 
point, on the side of the stupendous Ochil range. Itself and 
all its circumstances look mean, when the eye, looking upon 
it from below, is obliged to take in such a pile of hills, rising 
and towering above it into the clouds, and stretching to the 
right and left in an interminable line. One must rise and be 
perched like itself on its proud eminence, turning his back 
on the hills above, and forgetting they are there. He must 
look down on the vale and the windings of the Devon — over 
the ridge which lies between the Devon and the Forth, into 
the vale of the latter, and on Stirling's lofty heights and 
bristling battlements ; he must look at the ultimate and far 
off range of hills, which bound his vision on the right and on 
the south ; he must gaze on Ben Lomond's cloud-piercing 
peak, and count the clusters of his sons which lie at his feet ; 
and see all that lies between these remote and exalted things. 
Then he must see where now he stands, on a little hill en- 
throned among the hills — a marvellous pyramid of nature. 
12 



196 CASTLE CAMPBELL. 

He must look down on the dark and impassable glens which 
lie under his feet, and hear the waters on his right and left, 
which he cannot see, " roaring and grumbling, and leaping 
and tumbling," wondering how he got where he is, and how 
he shall ever get away. He must survey the entire (and 
there is little enough of it) of this singular lusus naturce, 
fearfully precipitous in every approach, except by a little 
bridge from the mountain side above. And then he will not 
wonder that the wealthy chieftain of a Scottish clan, in an- 
cient days, chose to nestle there. There was a natural de- 
fence from every foe on every side. There he might rest, 
or riot secure, in the very face of his enemies. They might 
crowd the vale below, they might swarm upon the hills, 
and frown and menace with hatchet mailed upon the hip, 
and quiver full of arrows on the shoulder, and the proud and 
sullen chieftain might walk at ease upon his tower, and bid 
the world defiance. 

The reason why this castle is so small, is, that it is equal 
to its foundation. Its natural advantages were too obvious 
not to dispense with wider premises. And there it stands, 
a rare monument of Scottish antiquities. Its age is not 
counted. " In 1465 it was the propert)^ of the family of Ar- 
gyll. And in this gloomy solitude the arch reformer, John 
Knox, passed some time with the fourth Earl of Argyll, who 
was the first of the Scottish nobility that publicly renounced 
the doctrines of the Church of Rome." The chapel in which 
John Knox officiated, and dispensed the sacraments, rested 
on the front brow of the prominence, the entrance door of 
which is now standing. 

And was there ever rich furniture in these apartments 1 
and abundant stores in these strongholds 1 Has beauty ever 
smiled and flourished here, and the delicate child, growing 
into womanhood, reposed her affections, void of care, on the 
bosom of a noble father 1 Have all the scenes of a princely 
household, and of such life and manners as characterize 
nobility, been enacted in this nest among the mountain glens I 
Has the noise of festivity and the gladness of mirth rung 
in these halls, from age to age, and times without number 1 
Have the buddings of young and aspiring affections blos- 
somed and been matured here, and plots of state devised 
and resolved on 1 ? Has the germe of youthful love and of 
war alike been cradled in this mansion ! And have all the 
trappings and splendours of wealth shone out from this 
once bright and cheerful, but now dark and desolate abode ? 
What change do time and human strife work out ! 

" What, John ! is this a stable ?" said I, as we entered the 
castle. " Yes, sir." — " And do they house the cattle here ?" 
—"Yes, sir." 

" This way," said John, passing the door where the cows 
were kept, and bending towards another, which seemed to 
have been used to human tread. 



CASTLE CAMPDELL. 197 

" And do they keep keys here ?" said I. " Does anybody 
live here V 

At that moment, following my guide, we entered a dark 
anteroom, strewed with such household furniture as I could 
hardly persuade myself belonged to human beings — it was 
so offensive and shocking to every sense. The most filthy 
beds, as if that moment deserted by the tenants in a fright, 
a thing or two with some of the shapes of a chair, two old 
hats bruised and torn lying on the floor, and rags and filth 
enough to breed the worst of diseases — all by the side of 
the stable ! John bolted through, as if at home, called to 
somebody in the next apartment, and announced a visiter. 
For myself, I halted, and queried what this could be ! My 
first impression was : — I have stumbled on the cholera ! 
And the reason of this confusion, if this can possibly be 
the habitation of man, must be, that a case of cholera has 
suddenly come on them, and in the next room I must be 
prepared to meet with a dead man ! 

" Come in ! come in !" cried a voice from the inner apart- 
ment — " I'll give you a book to look at, which will tell you 
a' about it, and wait on you soon." 

" But I have not time, good woman, to read that book," 
said I to a being, whom, on the whole, I took for a woman, 
and who at this instant came out and offered a big old 
rusty volume. 

" Han't you ? Weel, then, I'll show you," — and brushing 
by, she began to lead the way. 

I stood for a moment motionless and speechless, staring 
with no little amazement at this strange apparition, the 
forms, and dress, and manners of which I will not attempt 
to describe — there were so many things neither desirable to 
see nor to be told of. She was evidently the self-complacent 
mistress of the ceremonies. She passed by the stable, and 
introduced us to the hayloft, which she said was the great 
hall. The rest was easily shown, for the building being 
in ruins, there is not much left. Pointing the way to the 
top of the tower, she dismissed herself, till I might be satis- 
fied with my surveys of the wide regions to be seen from 
that station. This done, and being in haste, lest the coach 
should drop me behind, I proposed taking leave. 

" But," said the old woman, " you must gang down there," 
pointing to the place of the chapel. " There Johnny Knox 
made the ordinances." 

" But I am in haste, good woman." 

" But you meest gang there. That is the anly thing for 
you to see." Yielding to her resolute officiousness, I went, 
and saw a wondrous passage, blasted out of the rock, lead- 
ing down into the dark glen below. 

All the wonders of Castle Campbell were eclipsed in the 
wonders excited by the appearance and manners of this old 
17* 



198 DEATH OF A BROTHER AND SISTER. 

woman, and the extraordinary character of the furniture and 
keeping of the lodgments, tenanted by herself and house- 
hold. I had heard of brutes and men herding together in 
the same apartments — but I never expected to see it in a 
baronial castle. Verily, it was a sight not to be coveted. 
And to think, too, of the change from the ancient state and 
splendour of this abode, to its present condition ! " What 
a fall was there !" 

AFFECTING DEATH OF A BROTHER AND SISTER. 

" Have you heard of the distressing death of the young 

gentleman and his sister at , last week ?" said a 

fellow-passenger in a stagecoach, while we were passing 
from Stirling to Perth, in the summer of 1832. 

" Yes, I happened to be at the very inn yesterday, with- 
out any knowledge of these facts ; and the little which I 
saw was well calculated to confirm the common rumour." 

A young English gentleman of rank and fortune, being 
an invalid, was advised to spend some weeks in the high- 
lands of Scotland for the benefit of his health. An affec- 
tionate sister would not let him go alone, but accompanied 
him from England, and attended him in all his excursions 
in Scotland with those anxious assiduities, which charac- 
terize the female character, that has been refined by educa- 
tion, and trained from earliest years in the bestowment of 
sisterly affections and offices on the appropriate objects of 
their regard. 

He had just taken lodgings in those wild regions of the 
highlands, which are hired out by their proprietors in the 
sporting season to English noblemen and gentry, who have 
wealth and leisure to devote themselves to the invigorating 
exercises of shooting fowl and pursuing the deer. Of the 
latter there is not so much game as formerly; but the 
grouse, or heath-cock, is still in great abundance. 

This young gentleman was accustomed to take airings in 
his gig with his sister, whose affectionate duty to him had 
imposed a corresponding obligation not to neglect her hap- 
piness. Indeed, they were as devoted to each other, and 
as happy in each other's society, as brother and sister 
could be. The sports of the heathy hills were nothing to 
him, compared with the soothing companionship of one he 
had so much reason to love. His game he pursued at his 
doctor's bidding ; his sister he attended from the affection 
he bore to her. 

He said to her one morning : — " Come, let us drive to- 
day to the Rumbling Bridge and the Devil's Mill. It is but 
twenty miles, or a little more ; and we can return in the 
evening." Having arrived at the place, he left his horse at 
the nearest inn, and ordered refreshments against their re- 
torn from a view of the objects before them. The fatigues 



WILD SPORTS OF SCOTLAND. 199 

of the day, or some other cause, proved too much for the 
young man ; and, instead of being able to return to his lodg- 
ings that night, his anxious sister was obliged to send for a 
physician. The cholera had just invaded Scotland, and 
spread a universal panic ; and the doctor in his wisdom saw 
fit, and perhaps thought he had reason, to pronounce this 
attack a hopeless case of that frightful and inexorable 
scourge, and retired from the scene. It was a wretched 
house, kept by a wretched drunken family, without a com- 
fort in its desolate, inhospitable walls. Panic-stricken by 
the declaration of the doctor, no human being could be per- 
suaded to attend on the sufferer, or answer to the calls of 
-the sister. In a few hours he expired in her arms. 

It was said and believed, when all was over, that it was 
not malignant, but common cholera, by which the brother 
was overtaken ; and that suitable attentions might have 
saved him. It was also believed, that the sister died of 
grief, of desolation, of a broken heart ; for both were found 
sleeping the sleep of death in the same apartment, and hur- 
ried away, uncoffined, to the same grave ! 

Can affection, can wealth, can friends save us 1 

WILD SPORTS OF SCOTLAND. 
England, which is proverbially a sporting country, annu- 
ally pours out on the regions of North Britain its thousands, 
who, for the most part, take their passage in the steamers 
from London, for a few of those warm and sultry weeks, 
which brood over the South, and render existence there 
comparatively dull and grievous to be borne. The steamers 
at this season, plying between London and the eastern 
ports of Scotland, are literally crammed with parties going 
out on these excursions. And they are such migrating 
groups of men, boys, and dogs, with such implements 
of war upon the innocent tribes of fowl and quadrupeds of 
the north, as are to be seen in no other country. A noble 
lord — perhaps a minister of the crown — is seen walking the 
deck of a steam-vessel in his thick shoes and hunting-frock ; 
all which, with all other appertenances and accoutrements 
of such an expedition, he walks, eats, and sleeps in ; ex- 
amines and rubs up his rifle and shot-gun ; pats his dogs and 
talks to them ; thinks and speaks of nothing but the wild 
sports of the north; forgets the cares of government, if he is 
connected with it ; leaves his family out of mind, and gives 
all other business and pleasure to the winds ; and counts by 
anticipation the braces of grouse, of rabbits, of hares, and 
of other game, which shall make every returning coach from 
the mountains groan beneath its burden. Such is the fitting 
out, and such are the schemes of the cabinet minister, of 
the member of parliament, of the judge, of the barrister, of 
the nobleman and gentleman, of the merchant and trades- 



200 WILD SPORTS OF SCOTLAND. 

man — of all the crowds of sportsmen, who leave London in 
the south, and go to lodge and bury themselves among the 
heathery hills, on the bald mountains, and in the romantic 
glens of the north, till they are as tired of this occupation 
as they had been of that which they left behind, and which 
they now hasten back to resume. 

One of the principal sources of income to the great pro- 
prietors of the highlands in North Britain, is the farming 
out of prescribed districts to this, that, and the other party 
of sportsmen from England for the sporting season — the 
proprietor being under obligation to maintain keepers of the 
premises so allotted, that one party shall not intrude on the 
ground of another. Not unfrequently some unpleasant en- 
counters take place in consequence of trespasses committed 
through ignorance of boundaries, or by the lure of game — and 
the parties threaten to end the dispute by levelling their 
rifles, or shot-guns, at one another. Large territories are 
often taken up by a single party, extending from mountain 
to mountain, and embracing many deep, wild, and in some 
instances impassable glens. They range over the hills from 
day to day, with their pack-horses and servants in attend- 
ance, to carry provisions and pick up the game. 

The following graphic description of a deer-hunt, as exe- 
cuted in 1618, although not perhaps applicable to the present 
state of things in all its minutiae, yet having been done, as 
a notice of things transacted on these very grounds, it may 
serve better than any thing I can do, not having been a wit- 
ness of these sports : — 

" I thank my good Lord Erskine," says honest John Tay- 
lor, " forasmuch as hee commanded that I should always 
be lodged in his lodging — the kitchen being always on the 
side of a banke, many kettles of pots boyling, and many 
spits turning and winding with a great variety of cheere — 
as venison bak'd, sodden, rost and stewed beefe, mutton, 
goates, kid, hares, fresh salmon, pidgeons, hens, capons, 
chickens, partridges, moor-coots, heath-cocks, caperkellies, 
and termagants ; good ale, sack, white and claret, tent and 
most potent aquivita. All these, and more than these, we 
had continually in superfluous abundance, caught by falcon- 
ers, fowlers, fishers, and brought by my lord's (Mar's) ten- 
ants and purveyors, to victual our camps, which consisted 
of fourteen or fifteen hundred men and horses. The manner 
of hunting is this : Five or six hundred men doe rise early 
in the morning, and they do disperse themselves divers 
ways ; and for seven, eight, or ten miles compasse, they doe 
bring, or chase in the deer in many herds (two, three, or 
four hundred in a herd) to such or such a place, as the no- 
blemen shall appoint them. Then, when day is come, the 
lords and gentlemen of their companies doe ride or go to 
the said places, sometimes wading up to their middles 



PERTH. 201 

through bourns and rivers. And thus, they being come to 
the place, doe lie down on the ground, till those foresaid 
scouts, which are called Tincknell, doe bring down the deer. 
But as the proverb says of a bad cooke, so these Tincknell 
men doe lick their own fingers. For besides their bowes 
and arrows, which they carry with them, wee can hear now 
and then a harquebuse, or a musket goe off, which they doe 
seldom discharge in vain. Then, after we had stayed three 
hours or thereabouts, wee might see the deer appear on the 
hills round about us (their heads making a show like a 
wood), which, being followed close by the Tincknell, are 
chased down into the valley where we lay ; and all the val- 
ley on each side being laid with a hundred couple of strong 
Irish greyhounds, they are let loose, as occasion serves, 
upon the herde of deere — so that with dogs, guns, arrowes, 
dirks, and daggers, in the space of two hours, four score of 
fat deer were slain, which after are disposed of, some one 
way and some another, twenty or thirty miles, and more 
than enough for us to make merry withal at our rendezvous. 
Being come to our lodgings, there was such baking, boyl- 
ing, rosting, and stewing, as if Cook Ruffian had been 
there," &c. 

PERTH. 

The coach from Stirling to Perth, by the way of Dollar 
and Milnathort, passes in full view of Loch Leven, that 
placid sheet of water, in the midst of which are the island 
and ruins of the castle where Queen Mary was incarcera- 
ted, and from which she made her escape with Douglass, 
May 2d, 1568. 

Ten miles before reaching Perth, we run down the long 
and romantic Glen Fargue, into the spacious and incompar- 
able Strath of Earne — an extensive and rich valley, under 
the best cultivation, through which the river Earne wends 
its way, and mingles its floods with the Tay, about four 
miles below Perth. From Strathearn, or the Strath of 
Earne — Strath being synonymous with interval grounds on 
a river — we came over a hill, from the summit of which the 
extensive valley of the Tay, waving with the harvest and 
filled with reapers — the reapers being women — opens its 
spacious bosom, and presents in its centre, on the banks of 
the river, the beautiful town, or royal borough of Perth, 
containing 22,000 inhabitants. Perth is the head of navi- 
gation on the Tay. 

From the brow of a rocky crag, overhanging the Tay, 
400 feet high, and one mile east of Perth, on the opposite 
side of the river, is one of the richest and finest views that 
can be imagined — especially at that enchanting season of 
the year, when every corn (grain) field is white to the har- 
vest. The whole of Strathearn, over the hill — the conflu- 
I 3 



202 DUNSINANE HILL. DUNKELD. 

ence of the Earne and Tay below — the meanderings of the 
latter stream for many miles, and the shipping lying upon 
its glassy bosom, reflecting all their proper shapes from the 
mirror on which they rest — the borough of Perth — Scone, 
once the residence of the Scottish monarchs, Dunsinane 
Hill of Macbeth memory — and the highlands, bounding the 
vale of the Tay, and far in the west the Grampian Hills lift- 
ing up their heads — these all, and all that they comprehend 
of hill and dale and wide-spread fruitful plains, lie directly 
under the eye, as one turns round on this high seat of ob- 
servation. 

HIGH DUNSINANE HILL 
Lies a few miles northeast of Perth, and Birnam Forest 
bears northwest of Dunsinane about twelve miles, and is 
near Dunkeld. 

" Be lion-mettled — proud — and take no care 
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are ; 
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until 
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill 
Shall come against him." 

" That will never be. 
Who can impress the forest ? bid the tree 
Unfix his earth-bound root ? Sweet bodements ! good ! 
Rebellious head rise never, till the wood 
Of Birnam rise." 

Sequel. 
" As I did stand my watch upon the hill, 
I look'd towards Birnam, and anon, methought 
The wood began to move." 

" And be these juggling fiends no more believed, 
That palter with us in a double sense — 
That keep the word of promise to the ear, 
And break it to our hope." 

From Birnam's lofty crag I looked down upon the face of 
Dunsinane Hill. There are only two trees left of the Bir- 
nam Wood that was, and that is made so notorious : one is 
a sycamore and the other an oak, both large and stately, 
standing near the bank of the Tay at the foot of the hill. 

DUNKELD. 
Dunkeld is a small village, situate in the entrance to the 
highlands, on the Tay, by the road from Perth to Inverness, 
15 miles distant from the former place. It was the seat of 
a bishopric, and the ancient cathedral is now standing in 
ruins — the choir, however, being kept in repair for the Kirk 
of Scotland. It is a venerable old building, which, together 
with the compact village, a bridge of fine architecture over 
the Tay, and the Duke of AtholFs seat and pleasure-grounds, 
presents a most picturesque scene down in this vale, sur- 
rounded and overtopped as these objects are by the multi- 



GRAMPIAN HILLS. 203 

form and variegated hills, which lie in heaps on all sides, 
and bury their summits in the clouds. 

Generally all hills and mountains in Great Britain are 
perfectly bald, and make fine pastures for flocks and herds. 
" On the Grampian hills my father feeds his flocks." And 
there they are, naked, and covered with flocks. Imme- 
diately in the vicinity of Dunkeld, however, the glens and 
the hills to their tops are covered with trees, which have 
been planted by the Duke of Atholl, whose estate is immense- 
ly large — running in one direction more than seventy miles. 
The western border of the Duke of Atholl's estate is the 
eastern line of Lord Breadalbane's, which extends to the sea 
on the west, and measures 110 miles in its greatest length — 
being the largest territory in Great Britain belonging to a 
single man, though not perhaps the most productive in reve- 
nue, a great portion of it being waste higlilands, or hills of 
little use except for game. 

The present Duke of Atholl has been in a lunatic asylum 
of London these thirty years or more. The late duke his 
father had begun in his lifetime one of the most magnificent 
palaces in the kingdom. It is said, that in the estimate of 
the cost of this edifice, the single item of raising the walls 
and putting on the roof, together with the materials, would 
have been one hundred thousand pounds. The Baronial Hall, 
in the plan, is 150 feet by 36, larger, and to be finished in a 
more magnificent style, than St. George's Banqueting Hall at 
Windsor Castle. The walls are only partly raised, the death 
of the duke having arrested the work. It is situated on low 
ground, not. far from the bank of the river. 

The best place for the palace, and for any imposing build- 
ing, is a natural terrace of a few acres, south of the village, 
and about one hundred feet above the river — overlooking 
the entire grounds below — and which happens to be the free- 
hold of a private gentleman, who in the spirit of rivalship 
had erected a house, which was likely to detract attention 
from any thing the duke could create below with all his 
wealth. As the duke could not eject this man, nor buy him 
out, and being in possession of the land up to the brow of 
the hill in front of this gentleman's mansion and premises, 
he generously set himself to work and planted forest-trees 
of the largest growth, which in a few years will entirely shut 
out from view in all directions his envied and hitherto boast- 
ing, but now mortified, rival. " All this availeth me nothing, 
so long as Mordecai the Jew sitteth at the king's gate." 
But the duke is dead, and will never see the end of his pur- 
pose in this particular. His plan, however, is fast in the prog- 
ress of attainment, and every time the doctor walks upon 
his terrace he sees these trees bristling and rising before 
him to shut him in and shut him out. This doctor was a 
surgeon in the British army, and was in the battle of the 8th 
of January, 1815, before New-Orleans. 



204 THE LARCHE. 

The most common tree upon the duke's estate is a spe- 
cies of fir, from the Tyrol mountains, beyond the Alps — 
called the larche. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the 
forest which it makes. It seems amazing, that these deep 
and extended glens, and these lofty mountains, from their 
base to their tops, stretching for many miles in every di- 
rection, should be covered with heavy, dark, and waving 
forests, the seeds of which were first sown in the beds of a 
nursery, like garden vegetables; then transplanted in the 
same grounds of the nursery, in more remote relations to 
each other, and carefully kept till they are fit to be removed 
to the hills ; a second time every plant is taken up by the 
hand, and set in its forest station. This is the way the for- 
ests of Scotland are created. There is scarcely any natu- 
ral growth of timber. The larche is a staple production, 
sown and raised with horticultural care and pains from the 
beginning to the end. 

The history of the larche, which is getting to be much culti- 
vated in Great Britain, is this : — In 1737, two or three slips of 
this tree were brought from the Tyrol by the Atholl family 
in flower-pots, and set in the greenhouse, merely as a green- 
house plant, no one anticipating that it would endure the rig- 
ours of the climate. From these plants have sprung these 
immense forests, of the most profitable timber that can be 
raised — and they are fast extending over the kingdom by cul- 
tivation. Two of the original trees, which were brought from 
the continent in 1737, are now standing, and make a gigan- 
tic pine, or fir. One of them measures fourteen feet in cir- 
cumference two feet from the ground — the other nearly the 
same — and both, I should judge, a hundred feet high. The 
large nurseries where the different forest-trees are sown 
in regular beds, and then thinned out by transplanting, are 
a curiosity — especially to an American, who had never 
dreamed that forests were to be planted by the hand of 
man. 

The finest and most extended view from the mountains 
in the vicinity of Dunkeld, is from the summit of the re- 
nowned Birnam. Here the Strath of the Tay, on the plain 
of which and at its southern extremity lies the town of 
Perth, spreads out its fair and fruitful bosom, checkered in 
autumn with the whitened harvest-fields and every variety 
of agricultural aspect, fifteen miles in length, and nearly 
the same in breadth, bounded on all sides by beautiful hills 
of every shape, and rising in the distance into mountains, 
some of them lofty and magnificent — especially on the 
right ; — and the Tay lies wending its serpentine course 
through the heart of the scene. On the east lie the smaller 
Grampians, heaps upon heaps. On the north and north- 
west the Grampians rise into loftier and more irregular 
piles, sublime and awful — and one of them (the Schihallion, 



A DEVICE. 205 

I believe) shoots its sharp point solitary into the clouds. 
At the foot of Birnam on the east, the Tay, springing out 
from the hills, steals along the deep glen with its black 
current, deepened still in its shades by the extended forests 
of the dark green larche, which hang and wave over its 
bosom, until it emerges into the Strath. The village of 
Dunkeld, the bridge, the Cathedral (we must not whisper 
how small a thing it is), its adjunct ancient ruin, the extend- 
ed pleasure-grounds of the duke, and the doctor's mansion 
overtopping the whole — these are all snugly laid in close 
and harmonious society, down far below from Birnam's 
heights, and seem to be cradled among the hills. 

On the Duke of AtholFs estate are thirty-six miles of pri- 
vate road for a carriage, all under key — and in addition sixty 
miles of well-made walks — which are being extended every 
year. These roads and paths, being made for pleasure, are 
all laid through the most picturesque and romantic scenery 
— along the river's bank, up the glens, cut in the steep sides 
of the mountains and over their tops, and along the margin 
of precipitous cliffs — now merged in forest gloom — now 
opening on a boundless prospect, or some sweet vale — now 
bursting on a waterfall, and next along the side of a mur- 
muring brook. 

" Take your left yonder, and then your right," said my 
guide, as we were walking up the rushing and rumbling 
Braan, a branch of the Tay, — " and I will be before you ;" — 
and immediately he darted into the thicket on the right and 
disappeared. 

What means this, thought I ? This is a dark place, and 
looks like dark business. However, I had some faith, and 
obeyed my directions, but not without a little misgiving. 
In a moment or two the roaring of a waterfall broke upon 
my ear as I advanced. This surely is a strange freak, 
thought I again, to leave me thus alone in this dubious re- 
treat, and with such a token : " I'll be before you." And 
what reception am I likely to get ? Whatever was his 
scheme, he doubtless knew how to bring it about. Nor 
could I disappoint him. I therefore kept on, till the ground 
vibrated under my feet by the concussions of a hidden cata- 
ract. I soon came to the right-hand path, and mounting a 
bank, saw my guide at the door of a rustic temple, which 
he threw open on my approach, and introduced me to a cir- 
cular mansion about twelve feet in diameter, neatly finished, 
and lighted in the top of the dome. 

" This," said he, " is Ossian's Hall." Then pointing to a 
painting on the farther side, he began to explain : — " That, 
as you see, is Ossian, singing to his two greyhounds and 
the maidens that stand before him." I saw the listeners 
were alike enraptured, the dogs no less than the maids, and 
13 



206 

Ossian lost in the inspirations of his song. And while I my- 
self began to sympathize with the group, and stood gazing 
on the venerable countenance, the heaven-directed eye, and 
flowing locks of the bard, on a sudden, in the twinkling of 
an eye, by some invisible machinery, the painting was with- 
drawn — it was not to be found ! The space occasioned by 
it opened into a splendid, though small saloon, the farther 
end of which again opened directly on a cataract, forty feet 
distant, and of forty feet descent, which came foaming and 
rushing down the rocks, heightened in its powers by the 
full light of a blazing sun, and by the rocky bed and sides of 
the Braan, overhung by the thick-set trees, all stooping and 
bending to look upon the scene. It was grand and over- 
powering. My first emotions were those of a shock. The 
whole vision was thrown upon me so unexpectedly — the 
painting on which I was gazing had been withdrawn so 
miraculously, that I had almost fallen back on the floor with 
surprise. But the recovery into unqualified transport was 
as quick and irresistible as the emotions immediately pre- 
ceding. It is an interesting device. The cataract itself, 
in its own natural forms, is worth seeing. It is made to 
spring upon you like a lion pouncing upon his prey. It 
seems actually to jump and leap towards you — and it takes 
a second long moment to be convinced that you are not 
lost, overwhelmed, and borne away. 

What gives additional, and partly a frightful interest to 
this scene, is a large reflecting mirror laid upon the ceiling 
above, which unavoidably attracts the gaze ; and there you 
behold again the entire flood, with all its terrors impending, 
and it seems impossible to escape it. It is a most imposing 
spectacle. 

" Walk in, walk in," said my guide, stepping himself be- 
fore me into the saloon, as if to convince me it was safe 
notwithstanding, as he saw me rapt in amazement. I fol- 
lowed, and behold ! I saw myself thrown full length from 
the walls on the right and left, presenting my front and rear, 
and both my sides, with every form and shape I wore, from 
every point of the compass. I turned, and saw myself turn- 
ing in a thousand shapes. I looked up, and there saw my- 
self looking down upon myself, and standing on my feet 
against the heavens. I moved onward, and which ever way 
I went, saw myself moving in various directions — in one 
place slowly, in another quickly, in another quicker still, 
and in another darting forward at a fearful rate. He that 
has not philosophy enough to find out this secret, may ask 
me another time. 

There is another rumbling bridge, or brig, as they call it 
here in the highlands, thrown over the Braan, about a mile 
above the scene just described, where the river — 



FALLS. — MOUNTAIN SCENERY. 207 

" Comes roaring and grumbling, 
And leaping and tumbling, 
And hopping and skipping, 
And foaming and dripping, 
And struggling and toiling, 
And bubbling and boiling, 
And beating and jumping, 
And bellowing and thumping," 

and making a fall of 70 feet in a few rods, differing princi- 
pally from the thing which bears the same name upon the 
Devon, as being a larger stream, and having one single 
pinching, or choking-place, directly under the bridge, where 
the rock from either side inclines to meet, and nearly kisses 
its neighbour at several points from the bridge downward 
for 20 yards. In a flood it often fills up the chasm above 
the throat, and exhibits a marvellous scene as it presses 
through the crevice from its top to the bottom. 

FALLS OF BRUAR. 

M Here foaming down the shelvy rocks, 
In twisting strength I rin ; 
There high my boiling torrent smokes, 
While roaring o'er a linn. 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 
As nature gave them me, 
1 am, although I say't mysel, 
Worth going a mile to see." 

THE GRAMPIAN HILLS. 
On leaving the improved parts of the Duke of Atholl 1 s 
territories, we began to find ourselves buried among the 
bleak and desolate Grampians — for desolate and bleak they 
are, notwithstanding that romance and song have made them 
lovely, and consecrated them as the most desirable regions 
of the earth. All the mountains of Scotland — and Scotland 
is nearly all mountains — are bald as a man's hand, so far as 
the growth of timber is concerned, excepting the little 
patches here and there that have been planted by man. The 
little vegetation that is to be found of spontaneous growth 
on the hills, is slender in size and sickly in its hues. The 
heath (or, as the Scotch call it, hether) is everywhere found, 
and gives to the face of every hill and mountain a russet, 
or red brown aspect. On a nearer approach, and where it 
is thick, it has the exact likeness of fields of red clover in 
fresh and full blossom — most agreeable and captivating 
to the eye, but of little worth. One would suppose, in look- 
ing at these mountains, and passing through them, that they 
must afford but a poor sustenance even for sheep and goats. 
But the range is immense, in proportion to the number of 
flocks. The most productive use of the highlands is — farm- 
ing them out to sportsmen. But it is not the value of the 
game — it is the sport that brings the money. Scotland is 



MB CHARACTER OF THE HIGHLANDERS. 

rally a poor country, so far as its soil is concerned, 

; oasis of the tea 

THE HIGHLANDERS 

As the hills are poor, the people who live among them 
are also poor. Tin rant and degraded — not 

tea but a little remove from the mos - rbar- 

ism. I have travelled a hundred miles in one line and a 
hundred in another, among the hills o\ Scotland, and i 
when - - I — and that the prin- 

cipal and most frequent tenement of man. a mere sod wall 
cut up from the earth by the spade — without 
floor, without a chimney, without a partition, the tire in the 
centre, and the smoke, after rolling about this confined and 
damp den. es - little hole left in the top. and may 

often - pooling out its columns by th for a 

1 entered one of these huts, not more than 30 feet 
by l.\ :pied one end. and the 

gs and poult r;- :. with no other partition wall than 

- : of low rail fence — all apparently contented and happy 
. children singing, or crying — a little of both — and the 
It is true, that some of 
- - i rthan others — but the best oi them may 

well be supposed cheap enough. They are supported by 
ribs of unhewn mountain birch, the only tree indigenous to 
- . il. and when finished are exactly m the form of a new- 
made ! - s most befitting, the tenants being liter- 
ally buried alive. 

One would imagine that the highland race must have 
rated, when found in such conditio-.-.- - 
nousands. not to say hundreds of thousands, may 
be found, plan: - ittered along the lower regions of 

- mountain glens. The traveller would scarcely discern 
these huts as he approaches them, even when grouped in 
small v ill.-, g - - sometimes are, es the smoke 

which they emit from the hole in the top — so much like 
molehills are they. With the shepherd race among the 
Grampians. I do not remember to have seen the smallest 
agricultural, or even horticultural improvement. What wild 
St be! and how few their wants! 
- s appear, with some marks 
of civilization ; and occasionally, in the vicinity of some 
il ground upon a river, may be found a vil- 
f decent - . there the ground is or- 

dinarily the floor, and other things equal. 

THE BAGPIPES 

Yet from these very regions, and from these very huts. 
pipers will go out into the plains and towns below, strutting 
ill the ir % s, dangling in their kilts, with their plaid frock. 



THE BAGPIPES. 209 

sashed tightly about the loins, their bonnets bristling with 
feathers from a pheasant's tail, and walking so lightly that 
their feet seem scarcely to touch the ground — the peculiar, 
the inimitable air of those who have been accustomed to 
bound over the rocks of the mountains — making such music 
as almost to arrest the current of the river, and bend the 
trees to listen from the tops of the hills. As I sat at my 
breakfast one morning at Dunkeld, I heard the music of the 
bagpipe entering the village, with unusual power and sweet- 
ness. 1 jumped, as every one would — as no one could help 
— and ran to the window, and by that time every window 
and every door in the street was full of heads ; everybody 
in the street, horses and all, stopped, and others came pour- 
ing in from adjoining streets. The music passed. There 
were two pipes. I had often heard the bagpipe before, but 
never — never with a power to be compared with this in- 
stance. And who and what were they 1 It was a pleasant 
Monday morning, and two one-horse carts, loaded with 
reapers (females of course), with the frills of their white 
caps flying in the wind, each horse led by the hand of a man, 
all passing through the village of Dunkeld, on their way to the 
harvest-field. The pipers were two men, sitting in front 
of the first cart, as it rolled over the pavements — no great 
improvement to the music — themselves and their company 
apparently unconscious of the power they exercised over 
the villagers. And this is the music which they earry with 
them to the field of laborious toil, to entertain the vacant 
hour — this the music with which the shepherd of the Gram- 
pian Hills enraptures his wife and bairns, when his fleecy 
tribe are asleep around him for the night — the same with 
which he entertains the rocks in the daytime, and makes 
the reposing hour of noon sweet and welcome to his flocks. 
There is a subduing plaintiveness in the bagpipes, skilfully 
played, which few hearts can easily resist. That these un- 
tutored Highlanders should be so apt upon this instrument, 
proves how accomplished man may be in any one thing to 
which he devotes all his skill, and how rude in every thing 
else. There is a world of poetry, and the deepest soul of 
song, in the best music of the bagpipes. They tell you a 
story all along, challenging your every sympathy — a story 
that you cannot help but feel — and yet a story, the deep 
mysteries of which need interpretation. You would fain 
ask the wanderer, what strong passions agitate his inmost 
soul, and while he secures and enchains your interest, he 
passes by without gratifying your curiosity. You give him 
your whole heart, but he renders not in return the secret 
of his charm. He passes from the scene, enveloped in ail 
the strangeness of his dubious emotions. He has displayed 
to you the very wildness of Ossian, and all the lofty inde- 
pendence of Ossiairs heroes, while his light foot seemed 
18* 



210 WHO WAS OSSIAN ? 

bounding over the rocks and skipping on the tops of the 
mountains — and anon he is far away. Certainly there is 
character — and not a little of character, in the rude people 
inhabiting such a rugged region of the globe. It is not dif- 
ficult to believe that they have done such exploits as are 
ascribed to them in the historical legends of that classic 
ground. Yet no native of other and kindred climes would 
covet the place of their abode, or the circumstances of their 
earthly existence. To them it is home, and a much-loved 
home, for they know no other. 

Those naked, yet wild mountains, on the face of which a 
man, or a sheep, or a goat may be seen from the bottom to 
the tops even of the highest, are a strange show to him 
who has been accustomed to see such mountain scenery 
covered and waving with the thickest and heaviest forests 
of the wilderness. His inference is, and not unjust, that it 
is the barrenness of the soil, and the decrepitude of age, that 
have stripped these magnificent prominences of our earth 
of their most natural, most glorious robes. 

As we rolled along the vale of the Spey, with the Gram- 
pian Hills running into the clouds on all sides, under the most 
irregular and grotesque forms, I asked the guard of the 
coach — "These high posts, about twelve feet above the 
ground, stuck up apparently at certain measured intervals 
on the side of the road, I suppose are to mark distances, are 
they not ?*' — " O no, they are to point out the road to the 
traveller in the snows of winter. The snow often buries 
them out of sight." At this reply I saw at once the not im- 
probable verity of the accounts we have sometimes had, of 
the sudden storms of winter sweeping over these mountains, 
and burying both the shepherd and his flock before he could 
bring them home. A single glance of the surrounding sce- 
nery is enough to convince any one that such disasters must 
sometimes occur among such hills, in the latitude of 57 de- 
grees. 

We passed the residence of Mr. Macpherson, son of the 
translator of Ossian, and looked upon the grave of his father, 
in the beautiful valley of Strath-Spey — beautiful rather, as 
being a contrast to the desolate regions of nearly forty miles, 
from which we had just emerged. The old gentleman is 
strongly suspected of having been himself Ossian, and that 
his translation is the original; at any rate, he collected the 
fragments of the story from the current traditions in the 
mouths of the shepherd bards of his day, unless it still be 
true that he invented it. People may have which they will 
to be the fact. 

Take it all in all, the road from Perth to Inverness, across 
the highlands, opens a new and strange world even to imagi- 
nation, with all the strangeness of its expectations. Imagi- 
nation itself is surprised, and for this good reason, that its 



INVERNESS. CALEDONIAN CANAL. 211 

own creations are always false. But in this particular in- 
stance imagination is outstripped by the changing visions 
of the reality successively laid before the eye. 

INVERNESS. 
Inverness, as will appear from the map, is quite in the 
north of Scotland, in latitude 57° 30', it being a port-town of 
no inconsiderable importance before the execution of the Cal- 
edonian Canal; but since the projection of that enterprise, 
and the opening of its advantages, it is fast springing into 
a consequence, the prospective extent of which is perhaps 
somewhat problematical. It lies at the head of navigation 
of the principal indenture of the North Sea into the north- 
east coast of Scotland, terminating in the Moray Frith, at 
the entrance of the waters of Loch Ness. It is also now 
at the head of the Caledonian Canal, a stupendous work, 
which runs through the heart of Scotland, connecting the 
North Sea with the waters which lie between Great Britain 
and Ireland, and is walled on either side in its whole line 
by the highest mountains of this mountainous region of the 
empire. The population of Inverness is 14,000. It is well 
built, and makes a decent show. 

CALEDONIAN CANAL. 
The Caledonian Canal was first opened for navigation on 
the 22d of October, 1822, after having occupied twenty years 
in building. The original estimate of the cost was .£20,000. 
The actual expenditure was £986,924. The entire length 
is 58| miles, but the excavated part is only 21^ — the remain- 
der of the distance being composed of the three lochs, or 
lakes — Ness, Oich, and Lochy. The summit level is 96£ 
feet above the level of the Western Ocean. The work 
would not seem to be very stupendous, except by the depth 
and breadth of the cuttings, and the very great capacity of 
the locks, being extended to admit and pass large ships. 
Steamboats of the largest class may run this canal without 
difficulty. The locks are 20 feet deep, 172 long, and 40 
broad. The canal is 20 feet deep, 52 wide at bottom, and 
122 at top, and admits frigates of 32 guns, and merchant- 
ships of a thousand tons burden. From Neptune's Stair- 
case, the western extremity, Loch Linnhe is a mere arm of 
the sea, a natural continuation of the same inland naviga- 
tion for forty miles to Oban — making- the whole distance 
from Inverness to the open sea 100 miles, in a straight line 
from northeast to southwest. It is quite remarkable that 
this beautiful natural glen should have been laid in such a di- 
rect line across this island, as if for the very purpose of this 
communication. It is a mere furrow of nature the whole 
distance, bounded on either side by hills rising abruptly 
from 1,500 lo 3,000 feet, and Ben Nevis 4,380 feet. Nothing 
can exceed the beauty and the grandeur of this passage. 



212 FALLS OF FOYERS. 

From Inverness, after lifting the locks and shooting 
through the canal eight miles by steam, lined on either side 
by enchanting lowland scenery, we rushed without im- 
pediment, or even a gate, into Loch Ness, twenty-four 
miles long and from one to two in breadth, where the 
mountains immediately begin their stupendous uninterrupt- 
ed lines. The soundings of Loch Ness are from 116 to 120 
fathoms; and its extreme depth 135. Its subterranean 
sympathies are evidently very extensive, as it was materi- 
ally affected by the earthquake at Lisbon in 1775. 

About fifteen miles up this loch we came to the Falls 
of Foyers, a small river rushing down the mountain side 
into the lake, and in the distance of a few rods making a 
descent of about 500 feet. The greatest single leap of the 
river is 207 feet. It is well worth seeing. The chasm is 
far more awful than the fall itself in the ordinary height of 
water. It is said of a gentleman who, being intoxicated, 
spurred his horse across a bridge thrown over this fall, in a 
snowy and slippery night, when he went the next day, and 
saw by the track of his horse the danger he had escaped, 
fell sick and died at the very thought of his own rashness. 

"Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Foyers pours his mossy floods, 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where through a shapeless breach his stream resounds. 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 
And viewless echo's ear astonished rends : 
Dim seen through rising mists and ceaseless showers, 
The hoary cavern wide resounding lowers ; 
Still through the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below the horrid caLdron boils." 

Opposite the Falls of Foyers, on the west side of the 
loch, is the beautiful glen of Urquhart, which threw back 
upon us from the whitened bosom of its harvest-fields the 
effulgence of a morning sun. No wonder that the people 
born there love to live there— as they are reported. It is 
a sweet, enchanting vale. On the bold and jutting shore 
of the lake stand the ruins of Urquhart Castle, the monu- 
ment of memorable things. On the line of the canal are 
the ruins of two other castles, Invergarry and Inverlochy — 
the former situate on the western shore of Loch Oich, and 
the latter lying at the foot of Ben Nevis. They are both 
interesting and remarkable. Besides Fort William, at the 
head of Loch Linnhe on this route, there is Fort Augustus 
at the west end of Loch Ness, both in repair, and in the 
keeping of a garrison. 

During the whole distance on the canal, we had alter- 
nate shillings of the sun and showers of rain to diversify 
the scene. Often, especially on the decline of the sun 



Neptune's staircase. — ben nevis. 213 

towards the western horizon, when it rained in some places, 
and the sim poured his dazzling light upon other hills and 
clouds simultaneously, the effect was grand beyond descrip- 
tion. From the long and deep glens, shaded by the mount- 
ains on their western margin, and overhung by a fleecy 
cjoud, reflecting the full blaze of the sun, the very blackness 
<'i' darkness stared upon us — and there, in retired and awful 
majesty, the lightnings sprung their dreadful magazines in 
quick and tremendous succession. A painter, doing justice 
to the scene, would for ever be disbelieved. 

NEPTUNE'S STAIRCASE. 
A thirty-two gun frigate mounting these locks — eight of 
which make one uninterrupted rise, the other three being a 
mile below at the mouth of the canal — to make her way 
through the hills to the North Sea, might well claim to in- 
scribe upon the place of her ascent the triumphs of Neptune 
over the land, as ever before he has asserted dominion over 
the deep. I am quite sure that nothing could be more appro- 
priately named. It is indeed Neptune's Staircase. And here 
he is supposed to mount with his trident, shaking from his 
hoary locks the ocean wave, to walk over land, taking a peep 
at the hills of Caledonia, at the Falls of Foyers, &c, and then 
again, with gladness and the voice of triumph, plunging into 
his own element at the Moray Frith, as delighting more in 
" the profound eternal base of the ocean anthem," than in 
the shrill piping of the mountain blast. 

BEN NEVIS. 
I could wish, that before I had ascended this mountain 1 
had happened to meet with the following advice inscribed in 
a window of my hotel : — 

" Stranger, if o'er this pane of glass perchance 
Thy roving eye should cast a casual glance ; 
If taste for grandeur and the dread sublime, 
Prompt thee Ben Nevis' dreadful height to climb ; 
Here gaze attentive, nor with scorn refuse 
The friendly rhyming of my humble muse. 
For thee that muse this rude inscription plann'd, 
Prompted for thee her humble poet's hand. 
Heed thou the poet : — he thy steps shall lead 
Safe o'er yon towering hill's aspiring head. 
Attentive then to this informing lay, 
Read how he dictates, as he points the way. 
Trust not at first a quick adventurous pace, 
Seven miles its top points gradual from the base ; 
Up the high rise with panting haste I pass'd, 
And gain'd the long, laborious steep at last. 
More prudent thou, when once you pass the deep, 
With measured pace and slow, ascend the steep. 
Oft stay thy steps, oft taste the cordial drop, 
And rest, Oh rest ! long, long upon the top. 
Inhale the breezes, nor with toilsome haste, 
Down the rough slope thy precious vigour waste. 



214 BEN NEVIS. 

So shall thy wondering sight at once survey- 
Vales, lakes, woods, mountains, islands, rocks, and sea ; 
Huge hills, that heap'd in crowded order stand, 
Through north and south, through west and eastern land — 
Vast lumpy groups — while Ben, who often shrouds 
His lofty summit in a veil of clouds, 
High o'er the rest displays superior state, 
In grand pre-eminence supremely great. 
One side, all awful to the astonish' d eye, 
Presents a steep three hundred fathoms high. 
The scene tremendous, shocks the startled sense, 
In all the pomp of dread magnificence. 
All these, and more, shalt thou transported see, 
And own a faithful monitor in me." 

And had I been thus advised, I should have been more 
cautious not 

" To trust at first a quick adventurous pace." 

I was too ambitious — too confident of my own powers — and 
for my urgency, had wellnigh been obliged to return with- 
out reaching the top. At last, however, we came to a bank 
of snow — in August — which might serve for water with food, 
and there refreshed and ate our lunch with most voracious 
appetite. Then took a sweet nap in the face of the sun. 
Next, rising, we pushed our way, and soon attained the lofti- 
est summit of Britain's Isle. The day was fine : it could not 
have been more so ; and the scene there brought under the 
eye cannot be better described than as above : — 

" Vales, lakes, woods, mountains, islands, rocks, and sea, 
Huge hills, that heap'd in crowded order stand, 
Vast lumpy groups — while Ben, who often shrouds 
His lofty summit in a veil of clouds, 
High o'er the rest displays superior state." 

And although it cannot be said of Ben Nevis as Byron 
said of Mont Blanc, 

"Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ! 

They crown'd him long ago, 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The avalanche in his hand ;" 

Yet is it true, that Ben Nevis is sole monarch of these 
realms ; that he wears for ever a diadem of snow ; and that 
he clothes himself with the clouds, whenever any are afloat 
on which to lay his hands. From the top of Ben Nevis, the 
whole of Scotland, all the Hebrides, and a vast extent of open 
sea, are under the eye. One is astonished to find what a 
world of hills and lochs the said North Britain is ; and their 
shapes are so broken, so irregular, so fantastic ; some of them 
as perfect cones, apparently, as could have been laid out by 
trigonometry. Whether these are volcanic formations, I am 
not geologist enough to decide. I can only say, that directly 



fingal's cave. 215 

at the foot of Ben Nevis is a conical hill 1,500 feet high, with 
an apparent sealed crater on the top, the entire margin of 
which, being some 300 feet in circumference, is composed of 
stone in various degrees of vitrification — some of it is pure 
glass. It all has the appearance of having been thoroughly- 
exposed to the emission of volcanic heats. There are other 
phenomena of this description in different parts of Scotland, 
commonly called vitrified forts ; but the reason here implied 
is by no means satisfactory. 

In ascending Ben Nevis, at the height of about 1,800 feet, 
all vegetation disappears, except as an occasional oasis of a 
few feet square presents itself to the eye. Laborious as is 
the toil of ascent, the vision realized there in a clear day is 
a rich reward. But how vexatious to those who, after hav- 
ing gained the summit, find themselves enveloped in a cloud, 
as is not unfrequently the case, and then are obliged to de- 
scend without a glance at the world below. 

The northern side of nearly all these hills is broken and 
precipitous. The southern is ordinarily an accessible de- 
clivity. The whole northern line of Ben Nevis is a perpen- 
dicular cliff, or crag, of amazing and giddy altitude— in some 
places a thousand, in some fifteen hundred, and in others two 
thousand feet, indented all along by means of projecting 
points. The amusement of tossing stones down these 
chasms, to hear their fall and boundings in the lower and 
distant regions, is no small temptation to linger on the awful 
brow ; especially when one person can stand on a precipice 
opposite to another, and follow with his eye the stone project- 
ed by his fellow, until it is lodged in its final resting-place. 

FINGAL'S CAVE 
Is a rare beauty, I may say wonder of nature, in the Island 
of Staffa, on the west of Scotland. 

"The entrance to this great cave, which is about 117 feet high and 
53 wide, resembles a Gothic arch. The stupendous columns which 
bound the interior sides of the cave are perpendicular, and being fre- 
quently broken and grouped in a variety of ways, produce a highly pictu- 
resque effect. The roof, in some places, is formed of rock, and in others 
of the broken ends of pillars, from the interstices of which have exuded 
stalactites, producing a variety of beautiful teints, with a fine effect — the 
whole resembling mosaic-work. As the sea never ebbs entirely out, 
the only floor of this cave is the beautiful green water, reflecting from 
its bosom those beautiful green teints, which vary and harmonize with 
the darkest hues of the rock. The appearance of Fingal's Cave most 
strongly excites the wonder and admiration of the beholder, and over- 
powers by the magnificence of the scene. The broken range of 
columns, forming the exterior causeway, is continued on each side with- 
in the cave. This irregular pavement is most perfect on the eastern 
side, and admits of access nearly to the extremity of the cave. The 
entrance to the cave is a defined object, and gives relief to the view, 
while the eye seeks repose in the vast recess. 



feet 


in. 


371 


6 


250 





53 


7 


20 





117 





70 





39 


6 


54 





18 





9 






216 FINGAl/s CAVE. IONA. 



" Length of the cave from the rock without 
From the pitch of the arch . . . 
Breadth at the mouth ...... 

Do. at the farther end ..... 

Height of the arch at the mouth .... 

Do. at the farther end 

Do. of an outside pillar 

Do. of a pillar at the northwest corner 
Depth of the water at the mouth .... 

Do. of the water at the farther end 

" The average diameter of the basaltic columns is about two feet, 
but they often extend to four. Their figures are different, and the num- 
ber of their sides vary from three to nine ; but the prevalent forms are 
the pentagon and hexagon. 

" This island is extremely interesting in a geological point of view, 
and different theorists have endeavoured to account for the phenomenon 
of basaltes, and other columnar rocks. According to the Huttonian 
system, they have been protruded from below in a ductile state, having 
either been fused, or rendered soft by being near to other bodies, such 
as granite in a state of fusion, and acquired their prismatic forms in the 
process of cooling. According to the Wernerian theory, they are crys- 
tallized deposites of matter, held in solution by the chaotic fluid. 

" It is a singular fact, that this island, though one of the greatest cu- 
riosities of nature, should have remained until little more than the last 
half century, unnoticed, and almost unknown." 

Iona, or Ilcolm kill, is supposed to have been once a reli- 
gious retreat of the Druids. It was assumed by St. Colum- 
ba in 565, according to Bede, and made a seat of religious 
establishments for Christianity. A cathedral built in the lat- 
ter end of the eleventh century is still in keeping there ; 
but most of the ancient edifices are in ruins. 

" Iona was the usual cemetery of the Scottish kings. King Duncan's 
body was 

" ' carried to Colm's kill, 

The sacred storehouse of his ancestors, 
And guardian of their bones.' 

" So great was the reputation of Iona, as a receptacle of the renown- 
ed and royal dead, it is said, that besides many kings of Scotland, four 
kings of Ireland, eight Norwegian kings, and one king of France, re- 
pose there. There, it is affirmed, the lords of the Isles were all buried. 

" Iona was the principal asylum of learning during the dark period of 
the middle ages. From this sequestered spot a feeble and doubtful 
light shone upon benighted Europe ; and the vestiges of the edifices to 
be seen here, connected as they are with the very early periods of 
Scottish history, impart a venerable character to the present aspects 
of the island." 



BEN LOMOND. 217 



BEN LOMOND— LOCH LOMOND— LOCH KATRINE— AND 
THE TROSACHS. 

We proceeded down the Clyde from Glasgow \-l miles, 
and there, under the rock and castle of Dunbarton, we to 
into the channel and sweet rale of Leven, and passing in 
a coach the birthplace of Dr. Smollot, and many other re- 
markable things, soon found ourselves in a steamer, whose 
Home for the season is Loch Lomond. At, the lower end of 
this lake, its shore and the adjacent country are compara- 
tively Low, and not a little picturesque, as wefi as highly cul- 
tivated and tastefully improved. Here are castles and gen - 
Semen's seats, Are. more than are. convenient to name and 
desenbe. In a little? time we began to move among the 
islands, some large and some small, some high and others • 
low. 

Soon the mountains in the distance began to approach 
us, and already Hen Lomond's broad base and towering sum- 
mit, were before us. In fifteen miles we were shooting over 
the waves which laved his feet, and looked directly up to 
heaven to gaze upon his hoary locks, so often bathed in the 
clouds. We bowed to him, not he to us, although he was 
evidently moved at our coming, and continually showed us 
some new form, some changing feature. 

Ben Lomond is 3,262 feet high, rising immediately, and 
almost precipitously, from the margin of the lake. Those 
who can make it convenient stop to ascend it. But it occu- 
pies a day, and well rewards the toil. As I had been upon 
Ben Nevis, I did not desire to undertake a second labour of 
the kind so soon. 

Ben Lomond seems to be stationed here to introduce the 
stranger to his own family. For immediately on passing his 
awful and majestic form, the most rugged and loftiest hills of 
Scotland line the lake, and wall it in, and shut it up to every 
thing but heaven. Nothing of the kind could be more im- 
posing, more wild, more picturesque, with here and there 
a soft, sweet bed, lying at their feet, and at the mouth of a 
glen, which opens up the steep ascent, to separate one moun- 
tain of rocks from another. Imagination has been tasked to 
irVe names to these shapeless forms, and in some instances 
it requires no fancy to find the types of things familiar. 
There is a cobbler, for instance, perched upon one of the lof- 
tiest summits, for ever bending to his task, and never done. 
Whether he works at night is not easily proved, as his seat 
is inaccessible. And he is not without society, for his wife 
sits directly before him, with her face turned to his face, and 
there they hold their fellowship from age to age. It appears 
moreover, that his wife has turned Roman Catholic, and be- 
come a nun, for she has evidently taken the veil. A more 
exact likeness of such a character could not be drawn. 
K 19 . 



218 LOCH KATRINE.— THE TROSACHS. 

We sailed to the head of Loch Lomond, passing Rob Roy's 
Cave, the lake being nearly forty miles long; and there, 
after gazing a while upon the hills piled on hills, we turned, 
and live miles below the termination, myself, with a dozen 
others, left the boat for Loch Katrine; and some on foot, 
and some on poneys, we scaled the mountains, and climbed 
over rocks five miles or more, till we came to the house of 
the Lady's Lake, or of the lake which made the famed re- 
treat of " The Lady of the Lake." And I will venture to say, 
that never did any tartaned troop of the Clanalpine, or any 
of the Douglas line, or even Roderick Dhu himself, expe- 
rience a more winged or swifter flight over this ten-mile 
water bosom than we. Our light and bounding bark was 
trimly built, a Highlander was at the helm, another at the 
sails, and two others yet in waiting, and all jabbering Gaelic 
— the wind was fair and brisk, and though well loaded, we 
seemed scarcely to touch the tops of the waves : 

" Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue, 
Our barge across Loch Katrine flew." 

We brushed by the scenes on the right and left, which 
seemed to retreat as fast as we advanced, until on the wings 
of an hour, with no little fear of dipping, we came where, 

" High on the south huge Benvenue 
Down to the lake his masses threw ; 
Crags, knolls, and mounds confusedly hurl'd, 
The fragments of an earlier world" — 

making what are called" The Trosachs" — that is, the bristled 
territory ; and where the lake, 

-" still and deep, 



Affording scarce such breadth of brim 
As served the wild duck's brood to swim." 

And no one who had been here would say, that poetic li- 
cense had need to steal its privilege, for want of the sweet- 
est of the sweet, the wildest of the wild, the roughest of the 
rugged, the most sombre of the dark, the veriest jumbling 
together of all things, which might well make even crazy 
Martin, the strangest designer of strange things, more crazy 
still ; and of what, having seen, should bring him to his sober 
wits again, and leave him to say, " I have done now — there 
is nothing more." 

I too have done, except to say, that we ascended the 
bold and rocky steep of the little island, mantled with every 
sort of tree and shrub, native of these regions ; and there, 
in that deep, and dark, and solemn retreat, we found the 
rustic grotto, and the relics of ancient armour, and the skins 
of wild beasts covering the walls and the ceiling, and rustic 
chairs, and forms, and tables, just as the poet describes; not i 
that he had seen them r but that, by giving the picture, others^ 



CALENDAR. — FALLS OF CLYDE. 219 

lavebeen able to make them according to his pattern. And 
is I cannot hope to do so well, I here present the original 
fraught, every article and every feature of which, with some 
idditional filling up, is actually exhibited now in this ro- 
mantic island : — 

" Here for retreat in dangerous hour 
Some chief had framed a rustic bower. 
It was a lodge of ample size, 
But strange of structure and device, — 
Of such materials, as around 
The workman's hand had readiest found. 
Lopp'd of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared, 
And by the hatchet rudely squared, 
To give the walls their destined height, 
The sturdy oak and ash unite ; 
While moss, and clay, and leaves combined, 
To fence each crevice from the wind. 
The lighter pine-trees, over head, 
Their slender length for rafters spread ; 
And wither'd heath, and rushes dry, 
Supplied a russet canopy. 
* * * * * 

And all around, the wall to grace, 
Hung trophies of the fight and chase : 
A target there, a bugle here, 
A battleaxe, a hunting-spear, 
And broadswords, bows and arrows store, 
With the tusk'd trophies of the boar. 
Here grins the wolf, as when he died, 
And there the wild-cat's brindled hide ; 
The frontlet of the elk adorns, 
Or mantles o'er the bison's horns. 
Pennons and flags, defaced and stain'd, 
That blackening streaks of blood retain'd, 
And deerskins, dappled, dun, and white, 
With otter's fur, and seals unite. 
In rude and uncouth tapestry all, 
**• To garnish forth the sylvan hall. 

****** 

So wondrous wild, the scene might seem 
The scenery of a fairy dream." 

Having emerged from this singular chaos just as the shades 
f night came on, we travelled ten miles to Calendar ; in the 
norning, before breakfast, sixteen miles to Stirling; and 
iter breakfast, twenty-eight miles to Glasgow. 

And it is enough, perhaps, to say of what we passed that 
ay, that it was the very bosom of the scenes in which the 
outhful imagination of Walter Scott was cradled. 

NEW LANARK— FALLS OF THE CLYDE. 

This once, and I shall have done with Scotland. Being 
bliged to wait at Glasgow a day for a steam-packet to Lon- 
onderry, I undertook to discharge another duty ; that is, to 
isit the Falls of the Clyde, which not to see, being there, 
-rould have been an offence to all taste. 
K2 



220 FALLS OP CLYDE. — NEW LANARK. 

The vale of the Clyde, for 30 miles above Glasgow, presents 
one of the finest regions of country I have seen in Great 
Britain, and under the highest cultivation. Aside from the 
falls, it is well and satisfactory to have seen it. Besides 
many highly-improved seats of gentlemen, the road to Lan- 
ark passes by Lord Douglass' residence and estates, and 
through the large possessions and by the castle of the Duke 
of Hamilton. I thought myself in England again, and in its 
most cultivated parts. 

The first fall of the Clyde, in ascending, is Stonebyres, two 
miles this side of the borough of Lanark, and is well described 
by a comparison with the fall of Genesee river, at Carthage, 
N.Y. ; it being not a single cataract, but consisting of several 
leaps in a few rods, in making a descent of 80 feet. The 
other two falls are Corra Linn and Bonniton Linn ; the for- 
mer 84 feet, and the latter 30, half a mile asunder, the upper 
(Bonniton) being 2h miles above Lanark. Corra Linn Fall 
makes its descent by several leaps — Bonniton by one princi- 
pally. At a high flood they must be grand and awful ; and 
at any time are highly interesting, for the small scale of the 
rivers in Great Britain. Genesee river, breaking from the 
hills at Mount Morris, between its rocky, high, and precipi- 
tous bluffs, is not unlike this scene of the Clyde — wanting 
only the falls. The chasm of the latter, however, at the feet 
of which the waters leap into the Corra Linn, I think is more 
worthy to be compared to the chasm which receives Niag- 
ara's awful cataract, making allowance for the difference in 
magnitude. The Clyde is a small stream, and Corra Linn 
a little basin. 

The ruins of Corra Castle stand on the verge of the lofty 
precipice formed by the Corra Linn Falls ; and the highly-im- 
proved estates of Lord Corehouse on the west, and of Lady 
Mary Ross on the east of the Clyde at this point, lend great 
enchantment to these wonders of nature. The wild becomes 
thus intimate with the tame — nature joins fellowship with 
art ; the latter imparting qualifying grace to the former, while 
the former loses nothing of its grandeur. The whole re- 
gion of the Clyde, on either side, in the neighbourhood of 
Lanark, exhibits bold and majestic features, and contributes 
to magnify the sportful and resolute plunges of this sinuous 
current, breaking its passage through the rocks of Bonniton 
and Corra. 

The waters of the Clyde are gathered up below the falls, 
to give life and activity, though I apprehend not excessive 
wealth, to the manufacturing village of New Lanark, one mile 
up stream, but down hill from the borough. New Lanark is 
a pattern of a New-England manufacturing establishment, 
of equal extent, employing about thirteen hundred persons 
in spinning cotton. It has been nearly ruined by Robert 
Owen's experiments. Owen began here and run out. He 



ROBERT OWEN. — GLASGOW. 221 

recommenced in Perthshire, and run out there ; and we 
know what has been the result of his experiment in Ohio. 
He is now running his career in London. There are yet a 
few relics of his customs at New Lanark, among which is 
the dancing-school. Dancing is one of the classical exercises 
of the little ragged, dirty, barefooted children every day, as 
regularly as their ab, ib, ub. In passing through the different 
school-rooms I was introduced, among the rest, to the exhibi- 
tions of the dancing-class, and really it was ridiculous enough : 
two fiddlers, one blind, both sawing, like two tyros, who had 
never learned a note, on a corn-stalk ; fifty children, as above 
described, led by the most awkward fellow imaginable, who 
might have been taken for a beggar in London ; and all com- 
ing as near to the perfection of the art, as the worst cari- 
catures ever given of the trainings of our own unpractised 
militia approach to the perfection of military tactics. Poor 
Robert Owen, like Fanny Wright, has become a martyr to 
his benevolence, and done as much good. But we must not 
persecute him. Positively, considering the promises of Mr. 
Owen's new theory of society, and regarding the dancing 
exhibition I saw as growing out of it, the most ingeniously- 
contrived farce could not possibly have been more ridiculous. 
I ought perhaps to say a word of Glasgow. After obser- 
ving that it is an active and thriving commercial and manu- 
facturing town, nearly equal in population to the city of New- 
York, there is little to be added which does not belong to an 
ordinary description of like things. The University is sev- 
eral centuries old, and very respectable, as is sufficiently 
known. The heart of the city is well built, and exhibits 
many interesting and attractive features. The Clyde runs 
through the city, leaving much the larger portion on the north 
side. The navigation of the river is constantly being im- 
proved, by stoning up the banks, in the manner of a canal, 
and by deepening the channel in the use of the dredge ma- 
chine. The public spirit and enterprise of Glasgow are pre- 
eminent. They are a bustling and energetic community, 
doing with all their might what their hands find to do. 
19* 



222 NARROW ESCAPE. 



EXCURSION IN IRELAND. 

A narrow escape — Dunluce Castle— Giant's Causeway — A Husband's 
tears — Dublin. 

The wheels of the steamer in which I had taken passage 
from Glasgow to Londonderry had not stopped, before I was 
darting down the river in the Queen Adelaide, retracing forty 
miles'of the same track I had just made. The wind had been 
blowing hard ever since 12 o'clock, and the sea had got to 
be very rough. Instead of landing at Port Rush, however, 
as another gentleman was to land at Port Stewart, a little 
further west, and understanding that I could probably accom- 
plish my object in visiting the Giant's Causeway easier by 
stopping there, I consented to go ashore with him, not dream- 
ing of the peril that awaited us. 

The usual signal being given, a boat appeared off the har- 
bour to receive us, and came alongside about half a mile from 
land. Those who know any thing of the contact of a small 
boat and a ship in a heavy swell, while the ship is lying to, 
need not be told of the difficulty of passing from one to the 
other. Every swell dashed her against the side of the ves- 
sel, and threatened to break or swamp her. We succeeded, 
however, in getting down by the iron ladder, which was 
thrown over for the purpose— there being four men to man- 
age the boat, and we two making six. While receiving our 
luggage, a heavy swell brought the rim of the boat under 
the end of the ladder, and dipped and filled it as quick as 
one could fill a teacup in a tub of water. My companion 
and myself sprung for the ladder, and both of us caught 
hold of its lower rungs by our hands. The four men, as 
was quite natural, attached themselves to our legs, the ves- 
sel every instant changing its position by the motion of the 
sea. For the moment, it seemed inevitable that we must 
all go down together. By a merciful Providence, however, 
the boat was not entirely filled, and a rope still connected it 
with the deck of the vessel. The captain and crew of the 
steamer being prompt, drew upon the rope, and instantly 
dropped several buckets to the men below, ordering them to 
bale out the water. The men, seeing the boat did not go 
down, obeyed the order, and soon changed the aspects of the 
case. The boat was speedily lightened, and in a few mo- 
ments principally cleared of water, our luggage in the mean- 
time afloat, all except my portmanteau — which, most fortu- 
nately for me, as it contained my most valuable articles, and 
those most susceptible of injury by wet, was still upon deck. 
The danger came so suddenly, and was over so quick, that 



DUNLUCE CASTLE. 223 

for myself I hardly had time for a second thought. Why 
we did not all go down, was as much a wonder as a mercy. 
If the boat had sunk, as might ordinarily be expected in 
such a case, the probable result, is too obvious ; and the 
only reason why it did not is ascribed to the fact, that we 
were able to relieve it by hanging upon the ladder suspend- 
ed from the side of the vessel. We finally got safe ashore 
— ourselves and luggage drenched in the sea. 

The excitement of such an occurrence, when once the 
danger is past, I felt to be very useful. To have been 
brought, in an unexpected moment, to the very verge of the 
eternal world — that one is obliged to feel that he has been 
there, and that the merciful hand of God has been stretched 
out to rescue him from the abyss — stirs up all the suscepti- 
bilities of the soul, and opens the deep fountains of its feel- 
ings, as nothing else can do. I hope never to forget, and 
always to be thankful for, such a preservation. 

In execution of my plan to see the Causeway that day, 
and take the mail in the evening for Belfast, I proceeded 
directly in a car to Colerain, four miles, — whence, having 
put on dry clothes, and ordered my wet luggage to be dried, 
it being early in the day, I hastened off in the same convey- 
ance for the Giant's Causeway, ten miles from Colerain. 

DUNLUCE CASTLE. 

" Will you go by Dunluce Castle V said my driver. 

" No, I am tired of castles." 

"It is only one mile farther; and everybody thinks it 
very worth seeing." 

"Well, let us see it, then." 

The ruins of Dunluce Castle are situated on a rocky pro- 
montory, jutting into the sea about three miles west of the 
Causeway, and elevated perhaps 200 feet above the water. 
The fortress itself, when in keeping, could be approached 
only by a drawbridge. The ruins themselves are rather 
picturesque — but more remarkable on account of the pecu- 
liar character of the place. The sea almost entirely sur- 
rounds its base, and comes dashing and foaming in over a 
rocky bed, as if it would wear away the eternal hills. From 
the w r est windows of the castle the shore of the sea, stretch- 
ing for a mile or more, is a precipitous white cliff, exhibit- 
ing the most fantastic shapes that can be imagined, as 
formed by the action of the sea. Larger and smaller 
columns may be seen all along, standing in the water, and 
supporting the ends of magnificent arches, of the same ma- 
terial, whose other supports are merged in the cliff'. I saw 
one arch about a mile distant, exactly after the pattern of 
the heaviest stone bridge — and others which reminded me 
,of the heavy Saxon architecture of Durham Cathedral. 

I had heard of a cave under this castle, and to my utter 



224 giant's causeway. 

amazement I found a subterranean passage admitting to and 
from the sea, giving access to the ocean from the castle, 
entirely independent of the mainland. An army could 
march through it, to embark or re-embark, with all neces- 
sary ammunition — with artillery even. And the doubt is— 
whether it was made by the hand of man or of God. If by 
the former, the task must have been immense. It passes 
directly under the centre of the fortress, making a channel 
for the sea, which at flood tide will float boats half the way 
in. It has an irregular arched roof, and is generally, after' 
one has got into it, thirty feet high and twenty feet broad. 
As I entered alone, not anticipating such a scene, and re- 
ceived the salutation of the mighty waters, which came 
rushing, and murmuring, and bellowing into that deep and 
dark cavern — it was awful. 

GIANT'S CAUSEWAY. 
And yet all this was play ; it was like the soft music of 
the Eolian harp, compared to a like exhibition, to which I 
was introduced an hour afterward in the vicinity of the 
Giant's Causeway. The most remarkable cave of all, which 
can be approached only by water, I was compelled to deny 
myself the gratification of seeing, on account of the heavy 
sea which made on the shore. But there was yet one 466 
feet long, measured from its mouth to its extremity — and a 
large part of the way forty feet to the point of the arch, and 
about thirty feet across — running nearly in a direct line, and 
sunk so low as to receive high water almost to the further 
end. This cave is accessible on foot through another one, 
meeting it nearly at right angles, about 300 yards from its 
mouth, and being a little higher, so as to exclude the sea. 
Conducted by my guide through this access — sufficiently dif- 
ficult and dark — I came to the margin of that awful, never- 
to-be-forgotten scene. Had the ocean been calm, it would 
have been a solemn, dismal region. From the point we oc- 
cupied might be seen 150 feet of the cave on our right, as- 
cending gradually, and coming to a point; and 300 feet on 
our left, opening on nothing but a troubled sea. Every few 
minutes a swell came rolling in, that would fill up the mouth 
of the cave, leaving us in total darkness, and rushing for- 
ward with most impetuous fury, as if ten thousand times 
more mad for its confinement — and it seemed impossible to 
escape it. The next moment it all lay in fleecy whiteness 
at our feet, shrinking back in haste and modesty, as if asking 
pardon for such intrusion. No sooner had this retired than 
another came, and anon another, and so in perpetual suc- 
cession. Most of my readers may know how wave follows 
wave on the shore after a storm. So into this dark subter- 
ranean cell the agitated ocean from without unceasingly 
threw the fragments of his lofty heavings, as if in spite for 



giant's causeway. 225 

the obstacles of the high and rock-bound shore, that came 
in his way. From the position we occupied, although we 
could see out, yet the somewhat sinuous line of the cave 
and the irregularity of the arch confined our vision below 
the horizon, and veiled entirely from the eye the tumult of 
the sea. Buried 200 feet beneath the surface of the earth, 
with a massive mountain of rock impending over our heads, 
and looking out through an aperture of 300 feet in length 
upon the ocean collecting its forces, heaping up its waves, 
and rushing in upon us, as if resolved by a single throw to 
shut us in for ever — was a scene, the sublimity and the aw- 
ful grandeur of which cannot be easily imagined. The tre- 
mendous rush of the waters, thrown in by the tossings of 
the deep without, and the startling bellowing which preceded 
their thundering passage — the momentary darkness which 
the approach of every wave produced, by occupying the 
mouth of the cave — were enough, as I need not say, to awe 
the spirit of the beholder, and extort from him irresistible 
exclamations of astonishment and wonder. One of my 
guides had brought a pistol to be discharged in the cave, as 
is common, to entertain visiters with the singular and as- 
tounding effect of its impulses on an atmosphere pent up in 
the bowels of the earth. I have no doubt that in an ordi- 
nary time the report would have been remarkable, and even 
tremendous in its reverberations. But on this particular 
occasion it was like the mockery of man's inventions in the 
face of the artillery of the last day, so feeble was the sound 
in comparison with the tremendous roar of the waters. The 
pent-up air seemed in agony to be let loose from the dis- 
tressful constraint under which it laboured, by the narrow 
limits of the vault above, and the pressure of the sea coming 
in from without — and the concussion rushed by our ears to 
find vent through the passage by which we came. 

I am informed, that the proprietor of this shore once 
planted a small piece of artillery in this spot, and caused it 
to be let off in the face of a coming swell of the ocean ; and 
that the man who served on the occasion was deprived of 
his hearing by the violence of the concussion. Well for 
him that these high crags did not bow themselves in their 
strength for the punishment of such presumption. 

After this, which I came not to see, and never thought to 
see, what is the Giant's Causeway] It is something not- 
withstanding — it is even a wonder — and still more wonder- 
ful, as it suggests the probability, and produces a very 
thorough conviction, that it holds "a submarine connexion 
with Staffa, one hundred miles distant on the western coast 
of Scotland. Staffa and the Giant's Causeway exhibit in all 
respects the same geological phenomena — and we cannot 
resist the conviction, from the relations and aspects of the 
K3 



226 

two wonders, that they are parts of one stupendous whole, 
and that the finny tribes of the sea, as they sport them- 
selves between Ireland and Scotland, are privileged with a 
nearer access to that which man must for ever and in vain 
covet to see : a very honeycomb of rocks, paving the found- 
ations of the ocean, and showing to the eye of man only 
little bits of their extreme points and justled ends, but con- 
cealing their more perfect and substantial forms under the 
ever-rolling sea. 

The Giant's Causeway and Fingal's Cave are the same 
thing — the same, I mean, in material and in geological struc- 
ture. The caves in the neighbourhood of the Giant's Cause- 
way are not to be found among the basaltic columns, as at 
Staffa. In this particular the caves of Staffa are perhaps 
more interesting. But the Giant's Causeway, as a whole, 
in connexion with its adjunct circumstances, I should think, 
might justly be esteemed a greater wonder of the two. 

The remarkable phenomenon in either case is simply 
this : That immense masses (regions, they might be called) 
of basalt have received erect columnar formations, varying 
in the number of their sides from three to nine — the more 
prevalent forms being the pentagon and hexagon. The struc- 
ture of the honeycomb, supposing it to be solid, and its 
elongated forms erect, is a very fair representation of this 
crystallized basalt. For, although the substance is opaque, 
it has yet assumed distinct and proper forms of crystalliza- 
tion. These packed columns differ from the honeycomb 
in wanting exact proportions of sides and angles, in the re- 
lations of those of the same column to each other, and of 
those of one column to those of its neighbours. But each 
side of every column, whatever may be its proportion to 
another, or to all other sides of the same column, makes a 
corresponding side to a neighbour — so that no space is left 
in the entire mass, which is not occupied by the columnar 
formation, any more than in a honeycomb. Yet are there 
no two adjoining columns of equal sides and equal angles — 
and probably no two in the vast assemblage corresponding 
in this particular. It is possible, indeed, that accident has 
made such an agreement — but I presume it has never been 
ascertained. Suppose a circle to be run in the remotest 
angles of each column, I should judge, that their diameters 
would range from nine inches to eighteen — the average 
perhaps twelve — or midway between these extremes. In 
this estimate of their relative and average size I speak par- 
ticularly of the results of my cursory observations, without 
instruments, of the principal cluster of about 30,000, whose 
ends are exposed on the margin of the sea, and which seem 
to have been abruptly broken off at different elevations, so 
that one may walk over them, up and down, as by stairs, 
extending one way 725 feet from the cliff, till they dip in 



giant's causeway. 227 

the sea and are lost — and in breadth about half this extent. 
The sides and angles are perfectly rectilinear, so far as they 
are exposed, and by presumption universally. And the con- 
tact of the whole mass is so intimate, side to side and an- 
gle to angle, that not the smallest opening is anywhere dis- 
coverable, not even for the admission of water, and proba- 
bly not of air. Yet the junction is not hermetical — but so 
far as chymical union is concerned, it is a perfect disjunc- 
tion. They may all be taken down in perfect form. And 
what is remarkable, every column has a joint in every ten 
or twelve inches, composed of a convex and concave sur- 
face, perfectly fitted, yet chymically disjunct. The appli- 
cation of a little force, by a sharpened iron bar, would break 
them up into blocks with the greatest facility. Multitudes 
of these fragments, thus disturbed, lie scattered over the 
surface of this interesting and marvellous structure. No- 
tices have been set up by the proprietor, cautioning all 
visiters against committing any more ravages of this kind. 
As we descend from the main cliff, or high bank, towards the 
sea on the tops of these columns compacted in a solid mass, 
yet each demonstrating its distinct forms by its separate 
head, being broken off at a different elevation each from 
every other, they become more and more interesting, till 
they sink into the ocean, and make us covet earnestly to 
follow them there. 

The position of these columns is generally supposed to 
be erect, or perpendicular. But. this is not always the case. 
Every undisturbed cluster, or bed of them, however, agrees 
in this : that all of the same mass, if they vary at all, vary 
equally in their angle of inclination from the erect position 
— and that is ordinarily slight, though observable to the eye. 
They are seen all along for miles lodged in the precipitous 
face of this shore, composing one of its principal features. 
One stratum is often seen above another with an unorgan- 
ized stratum of heterogeneous rock intervening. There is 
one headland, or promontory, presenting an extended range 
of perpendicular basaltic columns, sixty feet high — another 
fifty feet — and others all degrees inferior. What is the 
length of the columns composing the principal, and what is 
emphatically called, the Causeway, and which appears most 
perfectly organized, it is impossible to say, as only the up- 
per extremities are generally visible. Except in one place, 
they present a precipitous side of thirty feet. While the 
face of this shore offers to the eye every here and there the 
most perfect ranges of this columnar basalt, there are also 
interspersed irregular piles, sufficient to leave the impres- 
sion of the stupendous ruins of one of nature's palaces. In 
one place there is a cluster of insulated columns, lifting up 
their heads, some thirty, some forty feet high, on the point 
of a promontory, which it is said were taken in the night. 



228 giant's causeway. 

by a part of the Spanish Armada, to be the chimney-tops 
of Dunluce Castle, and were fiercely battered by their can- 
non, and not a few of them demolished. I stood upon this 
promontory, looking down upon these insulated columns — 
and really they seemed to have as much of the forms of the 
handiwork of man, as many of the ruins of ancient castles 
to be found in the British Islands. This whole region seems 
to be disposed to columnar formations. I saw a distinct 
and magnificent range in the side of a rocky eminence some 
two or three miles from the shore. 

I only record such impressions, as a run and a jump over 
these remarkable phenomena left behind. And when I say 
that I had travelled 250 miles by sea, and 50 by land, in 
two thirds of 48 hours, in perils on the deep, and in perils 
among beggars, I may perhaps be excused for the slender 
and superficial information I am able to give of what I saw 
in the meantime. 

Whoever purposes to visit the Giant's Causeway, if he 
wishes to enjoy tranquillity in contemplating the scenes 
around and before him, and retire under the best impres- 
sions of what he shall have seen, let him fill his pockets with 
sixpences and shillings, and be prepared to rain a shower 
of them on the hordes of beggars that will be sure to flock 
around him. Or else, being in the same manner furnished 
in his pocket, let him say to them all, as they come in his 
way, Now this is the only condition on which I will give 
you any thing — that you keep entirely away from me until 
I return. Alas ! what meanness of spirit and baseness of 
conduct does the beggary of a community beget. 

In passing in the mailcoach from Colerain to Belfast, I 
found myself in company with a lady and her maid. There 
was every thing to interest in her person, mind, and man- 
ners, with a single exception : I suspected, and was convin- 
ced, that she was under the excitement of some intoxicating 
drug. It was a singular coincidence, after having been the 
subject of these mingled and conflicting emotions of respect 
and diffidence towards a lady of such interesting qualities 
and commanding powers, that I should have a seat at church 
with her and her husband the next day in the same pew ; 
and that I should have occasion to observe the expressions 
of anxiety on the countenance of the husband, as he occa- 
sionally cast an affectionate and benevolent glance towards 
his wife. His eye began to swim ; and finding that he 
could not suppress his emotions, he took his hat and left the 
church. The reader's conjectures in this case are as good 
as mine ; I only state the facts. 

DUBLIN. 

The best picture of Dublin is Cook's royal map, on the 
margins of which are exhibited the Custom-house, Postoffice, 



DUBLIN. 229 

Castle, Four Courts, Trinity College, St. George's Church, 
Blue Coat Hospital, Castle Chapel and Tower, Royal Ex- 
change, exterior and interior of the Metropolitan Chapel, 
Corn Exchange, Stamp-office, New Theatre Royal, Holmes' 
Hotel, College of Surgeons, Royal Dublin Society House, 
King's Inns, Lying-in Hospital and Rotunda, Linen Hall, St. 
Patrick's Cathedral, Nelson's Pillar, and the Wellington 
Testimonial — enclosing a draught of the city, embracing a 
circle whose diameter is two and a half miles. If one has 
. been somewhat acquainted with large cities, this map of 
' Dublin will leave an impression upon the mind more flatter- 
ing than an actual survey of the city itself, as is often the 
influence of pictures. Yet Dublin is a great city, and not 
without many features of magnificence. The bank is its 
proudest public edifice. The Custom-house is especially 
attractive, and well exposed in all its parts. Trinity Col- 
lege is a very extensive pile of buildings, of heavy masonry, 
sombre features, and for its purposes a proud national mon- 
ument. The Four Courts is a grand and imposing struc- 
ture. The Postoffice is not much inferior to the new Post- 
office of London — the latter built in the reign of George the 
IV., characteristic of every thing done under his command, 
not calculated to lighten the burdens of the people. The 
plan of the metropolitan chapel was for a grand affair, but 
the poverty of the Catholic church in Ireland affords little 
promise at present of its being finished. Nelson's Pillar in 
Sackville-street, in the heart of the city, and the Wellington 
Testimonial, erected in Phenix Park, were at least expen- 
sive, and are thought worthy of the names which they com- 
memorate. Dublin must not be compared either with London 
or Edinburgh. It must be looked at by itself, and then it 
will afford materials of much interest and worthy of obser- 
vation. It is crowded with public edifices, not enumerated 
above, of various classes, especially of a benevolent and phi- 
lanthropic character. Its principal and only spacious and 
grand street is Sackville, in which is the postoffice, itself 
being the great centre of fashionable resort. Dublin lies 
low on the river Anna, which divides it in the middle, run- 
ning from west to east in a channel, which, like the Thames 
in London, admits shipping nearly to the heart of the town ; 
but unlike the Thames in one important particular, its banks 
through the entire city being confined and walled by the 
best masonry, always clean and wholesome, fit for the most 
agreeable promenades, and showing all along some of the 
best parts of the town ; whereas the Thames, in all its 
length through the metropolis of England, is excessively 
muddy and offensive at low water, and its bosom above 
London bridge, that is, above the harbour for shipping, al- 
ways covered with coal-barges and other unsightly craft, 
with a world of lumber ; its margins being approached by 
20 



230 DUBLIN. 

little else than coal-wagons and such like vehicles of burden, i 
so that no one is tempted to loiter even upon the bridges to I 
look upon the river, but naturally turns away his eye, and j 
hastens across, intent upon his errand, and desirous of find- 
ing more agreeable things to look at. The Thames is an 
unseemly vision, and the channel of all the filth of that im- 
mense metropolis. But the Anna of Dublin is as beautiful 
as her name, a little channel indeed, but well dressed and 
comely. And the bridges, thrown across all along from the 
head of Eden Quay at convenient distances, up to the King's 
bridge near the park, are generally fine specimens of that 
kind of architecture. 

The harbour of Dublin is not good, and is difficult of ac- 
cess in bad weather. To supply this defect, and to com- 
memorate the visit of George IV. to Ireland, a new town, 
called Kingstown, in honour of the royal favour vouchsafed 
in the decree which gave it being, has been commenced 
on the south of Dublin harbour, six miles from the city, 
and is now in a rapid state of advancement. An artificial 
harbour of immense expense is in building at that place by 
government, and nearly enclosed — enough to be in use ; and 
those steam-packets, which have need to ply independent of 
tides, are accustomed to enter and go out at Kingstown. On 
the south of Dublin, some three 'or four miles, running east 
and west, is a beautiful range of hills. 

Dublin and Ireland seem to be crammed with beggars. 
Rags, filth, and misery are more conspicuous than any thing 
else, at least more remarkable, as they are everywhere and 
at all times to be seen, and cannot fail deeply to impress 
the feelings of a sensitive mind. 

Next in rank to the army of beggars, and to keep them in 
order — and like the beggars to be seen in all places — are the 
king's troops, which have made Ireland a land of beggars, 
and which will keep it so while the occasion of their pres- 
ence, to enforce the collection of tithes, shall be considered 
a suitable and sufficient warrant. 



LONDON BEGGARS. 

I had not been long in London before I passed a man, and 
a little girl perhaps thirteen years of age, on a cold frosty 
morning, both standing just within Temple Bar, barefoot, in 
the veriest tatters of garments, and shivering as if they 
would fall in pieces with the cold, as well I thought they 
might. Their exposed, half-naked, shivering frames were 
the only appeal made to the passengers. They said not a 
word. The first sight of them was to me truly affecting. 
It seemed like a case of fresh and some unutterable mis- 



LONDON BEGGARS. 231 

fortune. But I met him again and again in the same place, 
and always shivering, himself and the little girl, in the same 
manner. Not long afterward I met him early on a Sunday 
morning, before the citizens were moving, on his way with 
the girl, both still dressed in the same manner, and going to 
take up his position. As the winter had been a very mild 
one, with seldom a frost, I frequently passed him, when his 
shivering appeared affected and forced ; and the secret be- 
ing out, it would rather dispose one to laugh than excite 
pity. But when the morning happened to be frosty and 
sharply cold, I could not doubt that whatever money he got 
was well earned. But he was a professional beggar, and 
not unlikely a rich man — at least well provided for, if prov- 
ident. 

In the neighbourhood of Covent Garden I was accus- 
tomed for months to meet a plump-looking girl, with ruddy 
cheeks, about eighteen or twenty years old, who, during all 
this time, if we were to take her own word for it, had never 
eaten " a bit of bread, nor a mouthful of any thing." Her 
importunity excelled any beggar in London. It was next 
to impossible to get rid of her without giving. I presume 
she found the benefit of it, and was probably well off. 

I was also for a long time habitually molested by another 
mendicant girl of the same age, in the vicinity of the Bank 
of England. I told her one day, if she ever accosted me 
again, I would send a policeman after her. She probably 
marked my face, as she did not trouble me afterward, al- 
though I frequently passed her. 

On the south side of Waterloo Bridge is ordinarily to be 
found a man who has lost both his legs near his body, 
whose misfortune is sufficiently evident. Few will decline 
giving to him. He never solicits, except by a look. He 
dresses decently, is in excellent health, will tell his story 
when asked, and is said to be very rich. No doubt he is. 

There was a little fat but ragged girl in the same neigh- 
bourhood, about ten years old, whose importunity and suc- 
cess were quite notorious. I was passing her one day in 
company with two ladies. She sat upon the ground, ma- 
king figures in the sand with her finger, her back towards 
us, and singing. I said to my company — " Our little friend 
here is so miserable, she cannot help singing. I will en- 
gage, the moment she sees us, as I am in company with 
ladies, she will follow us till she gets a penny. For they 
know well that the presence of ladies is a great help to 
them when pleading with gentlemen." In a moment her 
impudent face was before me, herself hopping along under 
my toes, and singing a very different tune from that I had 
just heard. " Can you not sing that other tune ?" said I. 
But she stuck to the last one, which was this — " My father 
is dead, and my mother is sick — and I and the children have 



839 LONDON BEGGARS. 

nothing to eat. Please, sir, give me a penny.*' And, to get 
rid of her, I did so. 

On the great high road at Islington, opposite Oanonbury 
Square, there used to stand an old man (now dead), as regu- 
lar at his post as the houses in the neighbourhood, always 
looking down upon the ground, resting by one hand upon a 
brooim the other open in the manner of asking alms, but 
never using his tongue — and one foot for ever rising and 
falling by measured intervals of time. Slipping a penny 
into his hand one day, 1 said— " My friend, how Orach do you 
get m a day here f" — -About ten pence, sir— sometimes 
more." More likely ten shillings. 

A beggar nearly blind, maimed, or badly deformed, is sure 
to get money. 1 know not whether any persons have ever 
put out their" own eyes, or manned themselves, for the prof- 
its o( begging. I "should think not ; but these calamities 
are often affected and imitated. There are numbers of these 
classes, whom any person resident in London will soon get 
to recognise as old acquaintances. To affect blindness suc- 
cessfully requires a good deal of practice in the mechanical 
effort of rolling the eyes into the head. It is always be- 
trayed to persons who think of it. Such impostors may 
often be seen poking their way along the sidewalks with a 
guiding-stick, holding out a hat or hand for alms. They 
are distinguished by the constant rolling of their eyes. 
Mischievous boys sometimes aim a blow at them, as a test ; 
but anticipating" these assaults, they seldom blink. Some 
of the blind beggars are led by a dog, the little animal being 
taught to carry a tin basin in his mouth, and to look up im- 
ploringly on passengers, seeming to say. " Please give my 
poor blind master a penny." The penny dropped" strikes 
the ear of the beggar, and the dog turns and offers it to his 
hand. Artificers (and other workmen out of employ not 
unfrequently form platoons, parading and marching through 
the streets, singing boisterously and most discordantly; and 
so with sailors. A sailor with a miniature ship, and a 
wearer with a loom, contrive to get money in the streets. 

I have an old acquaintance in London of years standing, 
of the class of beggars, who all this while has had his sta- 
tion in the street with an arm just broken, splintered, and 
slung up ; his under jaw dislocated, and held up by a clean 
handkerchief, marked with fresh blood, and tied over the 
head : is otherwise and variously wounded, all freshly done, 
of course, from day to day, and from year to year : is blind ; 
just ready to faint and die; says not a word", for he is too 
exhausted with pain, and agony, and loss of blood, but 
swings his head to and fro most piteously. as if when it 
falls "towards one shoulder the bearer thereof would expire 
before lie could bring it back again. He succeeds well. 

There is another, "almost bent double with pains of some 



LONDON BEGGARS. 233 

kind ; is pale and ghastly ; cries so loud and piteously for 
help along the sidewalk, that his voice penetrates every 
ear and thrills every heart, in the remotest parts of each 
house which he passes. I had long supposed it a case of 
real distress, till I met him one evening in the twilight 
going home from his day's work, erect and hale, with as 
firm a step as any other man — the bandages of his face 
being thrown aside. It happened that I had met him in 
his begging rounds the morning of that very day. The 
next time 1 recognised his cry in the street, I took my hat, 
and overtaking him, said : — " But why don't you stand up 
and be strong, as I saw you the other night going home P' 
— " How-ow-ow P' said he, in a long, drawling, heart-pier- 
cing tone, affecting to try to look up, but without success ; 
which completely unmanned me; and notwithstanding I 
had full evidence of his imposture, I let him alone, and 
went into the house, regretting my experiment. 

There is another case of a well-dressed, good-looking 
man, always clean, who has paraded the streets of London 
for years with a flute, three girls (probably daughters), 
neatly apparelled with clean white aprons, standing in a 
line with him, fronting the side of the street, as he plays 
his flute, which is not very well done. The eldest of these 
girls by this time, I should think, is eighteen years, and the 
youngest perhaps twelve — a singular course of education, 
looking so well as they do. This is of all others a most 
successful experiment. Every one who is not familiar 
with the exhibition, concludes at first sight, and without 
doubt, " this is a case of real distress ; the man and his 
family have been in a better condition, but are suddenly 
brought to beggary;" and, instead of giving him a penny, 
will give a sixpence or a shilling. I presume there are 
few tradesmen in London, men of prosperous business, 
who are making money faster than he. The last time I 
saw him with his daughters, who have grown up since I 
first knew them, was in the Strand a few days before I left 
London, when one of the poor girls was crying. I imagin- 
ed — for who that sees tears does not inquire into the cause ! 
— that these daughters had begun to feel a little of the pride 
of womanhood, and to deplore the tyranny of an unnatural 
father, who, for the love of money, had doomed them to 
such an existence, and still held them in bondage. 

The modes of beggary in London are as diversified as 
the genius and faculties of the inventors. Obvious physi- 
cal infirmity is of course the most effectual, as none can 
resist its appeal. Hence deformed children are hired out 
to beggary, and feeble, helpless, emaciate infants exposed 
in the streets, and supposed to be kept feeble and emaci- 
ated for this purpose ! They are probably orphans, fallen 
into the hands of monsters. One cannot believe that a 
20* 



234 LONDON BEGGARS. 

mother could so stifle her nature as to resign her babe to 
such a doom. Regular schools are kept to instruct children 
in the arts of begging. 

It happened one day in the winter, as I was walking 
through Leadenhall-street towards Cornhill, that I espied 
just before me, and going the same way, a young man in a 
drover's frock, hanging with apparent importunity over the 
shoulder of a gentleman, as if he were begging. Neither 
his dress, nor his manner, was at all like a common beggar. 
The former was entire, and the latter unpractised. As I 
noticed, he proved unsuccessful. The gentleman repulsed 
him, and, as he fell back, I found him the next instant at 
my side, trying what impression he could make on me. 

I was not in the humour at that moment to be moved by 
an ordinary application of the kind, and was in a hurry. 
What was still worse for the poor fellow, I had no change 
less than a sovereign, or one pound gold coin. 

The fellow was exceedingly earnest, but awkward. He 
was evidently unused to the vocation. He annoyed me— 
pushed his face into mine — and nearly trod upon my toes, 
I told him I had nothing to give, but he did not seem to 
hear me. I rebuked him — he did not regard it, but still 
hung upon my shoulder, and persecuted me with his im- 
portunities. He was hungry, he said — he had had nothing 
to eat that day, and it was now drawing to night. In short, 
it seemed impossible to get rid of him. And yet I must, or 
give him a sovereign. Being somewhat vexed, I turned to 
push him from me, and in doing so, brushed my umbrella 
rather rudely over the back of his hand, grazing, and not 
unlikely breaking the skin, for I observed he looked upon 
his hand, and then put it to his mouth, as if it were hurt. 
But still, to my astonishment, he stuck to my side, and per- 
severed in his importunities. I then rebuked him most 
sharply — but do not remember at this time what words I 
employed. I can never forget, however, the manner in 
which he received it. He dropped from me as if he had 
been instantaneously struck with absolute and perfect dis- 
couragement, and in a tone which went through my very 
heart, said, " You wouldn't say so, master, if you's as hungry 
as 7." And these words he uttered as he fell back, and I 
saw him no more. 

Except that I had been a little vexed by what I had 
counted as impudence, I should probably have turned im- 
mediately, and contrived to get some change. And al- 
though thoughts are quick, and my feelings began to relent, 
yet before they were thoroughly subdued, we had got too 
far apart to meet again, except by accident. I had not 
gone many rods, however, before I became quite anxious, 
and in the same degree generous. Those last wordis, and 
the heart-subduing manner and tone of them, kept ringing 



LONDON BEGGARS. 235 

in my ears : " You wouldn't say so, master, if you' s as hungry 
as I." I stepped into a shop, got my sovereign in change, 
and turned about in pursuit of the young man, but I could 
not find him. I went through Leadenhall, and searched 
the streets and alleys in the vicinity for half an hour, but 
did not fall upon him. The longer I looked without suc- 
cess, the more anxious I became. Imagination then came 
in with all its powers, and magnified the importance of the 
case a thousand fold. That it was a case of real want — of 
pinching hunger — I had no reason on the whole to doubt. 
His dress, his manner, his every thing to the last I had ob- 
served, convinced me it was so. And these very appear- 
ances were such as would ordinarily prevent his success 
in London, until he should become more accomplished in 
the art of begging. By that time what would become of 
him ? I began to feel a responsibility. First, I had rebuked 
him, which now seemed a cruelty. Next, I had hurt his 
hand — and that, though unintentional, troubled my con- 
science. And last, I had added to all the rest some sharp- 
ness of speech to get rid of him. I thought it not improba- 
ble that he had been trying and trying in vain till he came 
to me, and receiving such discouragement, he had gone and 
threw himself down in some secret place to perish; or at 
least, resolved no more to solicit alms of the unfeeling mer- 
cies of man. Every turn and every step I made in this 
pursuit without success, increased my anxiety. Conjec- 
tures and imaginings came upon me thick and tender, and 
when at last I was compelled to give up the search, it was, 
if possible, the most trying moment of all. The being I 
could not find, was now to me one of the most interesting 
objects. He who had vexed and put me out of humour a 
few moments before, by his importunate and annoying soli- 
citations, was now most earnestly desired by me to satisfy 
my feelings of compunction and of pity. Most reluctantly, 
and for the first time in my life, I turned away from a pur- 
suit so altogether novel. In such circumstances, I was 
necessarily doomed to a conflict of emotions, the remem- 
brance of which cannot easily be effaced. The last words 
of the poor young man, " You wouldn't say so, master, if 
you's as hungry as I," followed me at every step, and re- 
proached me at every corner. Other beggars appeared as 
I went along Cheapside ; and to make atonement I could 
have begged them, had it been necessary, to accept of my 
pennies. But I soon found that this generosity could not 
satisfy the petition I had rejected. Those last words still 
pursued me, and I could not silence them. I even started, 
and looked back several times, as if the voice that uttered 
them had overtaken me. Most glad should I have been if 
the momentary and fleeting illusion had proved a reality. 
If it were possible for me ever to feel indifferent towards 



236 LONDON BEGGARS. 

beggars after such a challenge of my sympathies, the im- 
pressions of that scene might well be fixed within me for 
ever by another, not unlike it, which occurred a few days 
after. I had breakfasted at my lodgings in Regent Square, 
and was walking rapidly in a cold and windy morning to the 
Library of the Russel Institution. But as it happened, I 
was altogether unprovided for a beggar. I had not gone 
far before I was accosted by a man about forty years old, 
dressed in a style rather unusual for a beggar, and his man- 
ner equally betrayed him unaccustomed to the business. I 
told him — I had nothing. But being upon the windward 
side, he did not hear me, as afterward appeared — but fol- 
lowed me with his importunities. His perseverance seemed 
to me unreasonable, and was troublesome. I stopped sud- 
denly, turned upon him, and said rather sharply : — " Did I 
not tell you I had nothing'?" — " sir," said he, " I did not 
hear you — the wind blew so hard" — and instantly drew back, 
and left me to proceed. As I turned to look him in the face, 
regarding the manner of his reply, and saw him retire with 
such evident regret that he had given me any occasion to 
be displeased — with such an earnest expression, that he' 
would not willingly have done so ; — and observing such in- 
dubitable marks of honesty in him withal, such manliness in 
subdued forms, such indications of a soul where delicacy 
of feeling might be supposed to have had a permanent abode 
— such unwillingness to give trouble, and yet such a betray- 
ing of a sense of pinching want — I am sure his disappoint- 
ment could not have borne any proportion to my own, 
The result of my reasonings, however, in this case, as in the 
former, came too late — except to confirm my good purposes, 
that I would endeavour always to be prepared for such 
cases. 

A CASE IN FRANCE. 

I can never forget a scene which occurred one cold 
morning at sunrise, on my way from Calais to Paris, as the 
diligence stopped to change horses, and I awoke out of 
sleep by the call of a beggar just at my ear and by the win- 
dow of the coach. It was an old woman, having all the ap- 
pearances and every feature of what might well be imagin- 
ed to be a very hag. There was nothing human but bodily 
form. Her dress, face, and every thing were frightful. 
One would have written a certificate that no semblance of 
human kindness could ever have had place under that garb. 
It seemed no other than a fiend. She carried in her arms a 
poor wretched child, about eight years old, with no cover' 
ing but a tattered rag, shivering with the cold, evidently just 
drawn out from the straw, and thus cruelly exposed to the 
chills of a frosty morning. The child was made to lie upon 
the shoulder, so as to exhibit its face to us ; and horrible to 



LONDON BEGGARS. 237 

behold, both his eyes were put out, one entirely dug from 
the sockets, and the other destroyed and protruding most 
frightfully from the head ! The poor thing writhed, cried, 
and entreated, though with an apparent consciousness of its 
unavailing efforts, to be taken back out of the cold. One 
of my companions, accustomed to travel in France, said, to 
my indescribable horror, that the child's eyes were put out 
by violence, and expressly to be exhibited for begging ! I 
thrust my hand in my pocket, and threw out all the copper 
I had, without thinking that, instead of satisfying the wretch, 
it would only encourage her ! I had hoped she would take 
the poor sufferer immediately in. 

Alas ! I could wish that it was possible for the impression 
of that scene, and the look of that woman, to be effaced from 
my mind ! The suggestion that the eyes of that child had 
been put out for that purpose, and the unavoidable convic- 
tion, from every look and feature, and from the behaviour 
of the woman, that she was even capable of enacting such 
a tragedy, were the blackest libel on human nature that the 
annals of human depravity have ever recorded ! And the 
torture of that child must be perpetual to answer the pur- 
poses of gain ! Could it be the mother ? O no ! 

Similar cases, though not so shocking at first sight, are 
very common in London ; and yet I know not whether the 
secret history of these daily transactions would not develop 
a character equally revolting. Pale, emaciated, half-expi- 
ring infants, sometimes one, sometimes two like twins, are 
exposed in a woman's arms, as she sits by the way, whose 
silent, imploring eloquence cannot fail to touch the heart 
of the passenger. In the majority of these cases, it is sup- 
posed that these monsters are not mothers, but creatures 
not deserving the name of human, who by some means have 
got possession of these little martyrs, and keep them half 
way between life and death to excite compassion and obtain 
money ! Alas ! that the legislation of a civilized and Chris- 
tian community should not interpose to prevent such a crime ! 
a crime of constant occurrence, and well known ! Common 
murder is innocence compared with it ! and all this in the 
midst of a city whose public monuments of charity are 
more numerous, and more imposing, than in any other city 
on earth. 

18* 



238 CHURCH OF ENGLAND. 



THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND. 

The King, head of the Church — Episcopal prerogative merged in the State 
— Wealth of the Church of England— Controverted— Difficult to be de- 
termined — Modes of estimating it — The probable amount — Compared 
with the revenues of States — Comparative expenses of Christianity in 
different nations — Revenues of the Roman Catholic Church— Ecclesi- 
astical statistics and revenues of Spain — Ditto of France — The Eng- 
lish Church aggrandized by a separation from Rome— Distribution of 
the revenues of the English Church — Church patronage — Enormous 
wealth of the English and Irish Bishops — Wealth of the Irish Church — 
Compared with others— The Church and the Army together— Tithe lit- 
igations — Lord John Russell's opinion of the Church of Ireland — Tithe 
slaughter of Rathcormac — The sick widow oppressed — The rector im- 
posing tithes on a dissenting clergyman's garden — Burden of tithes on the 
poor — A case of tithe augmentation near London — Sale of church liv- 
ings by public auction — A remarkable advertisement — The last wish of 
a dying woman — Injustice to Dissenters — A redeeming feature. 

I speak of the Church of England simply as an estab- 
lishment in connexion with the state. As such it is a polit- 
ical institution. The king is its head. The bishops, who 
supervise the church, are nominated, or presented, to their 
sees by the king, are supervised by the king, and are re- 
quired to do homage to the king in acknowledgment of his 
supremacy, before they can be installed, or before the act 
of their " enthronization ;" for the bishops are enthroned. 
In every cathedral church is a bishop's throne, appropriated 
to the induction of the king's nominee into the powers and 
prerogatives of the vacant see. 

There is, indeed, a nominal and dormant independence of 
the church, supposed to be vested in the convention of 
bishops and clergy ; but it is not used. So far from assert- 
ing independence, this body do not even meet, unless it be 
for some idle ceremonies in recognition of a new parliament 
— a somewhat ridiculous pretension. The powers of this 
body have been absorbed by the crown, or rather, perhaps, 
conceded to it, as a convenient way of wresting the inde- 
pendence of the church from the hands of a general Epis- 
copal College, and lodging its powers in the hands of the 
archbishops, and such of the bishops as may be agreeable 
to the primates and the king in the control of church mat- 
ters — the king being always head. As a matter of fact, 
therefore, there is no existing Episcopal convention of the 
Church of England in the use of its appropriate powers. 
For the privilege of participating in the prerogatives of state 
legislation and administration, these Episcopal prerogatives 
have been resigned, or permitted to lie dormant. 

The wealth of the English Church is at this moment a 



WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 239 

subject of controversy, and in progress of development. 
Since the jealousy of the public on this question has been 
awakened, and an attitude of inquiry assumed in relation to 
this, as to other abuses, supposed to demand being checked, 
the interested party have very naturally studied conceal- 
ment; and having all this wealth and its management in 
their own hands, the public as yet are obliged to depend 
mainly on their reports. 

Dr. Watson, Bishop of Llandaff, and other writers inter- 
ested in the concealment of facts that should develop the 
wealth of the English Church, had maintained, that its an- 
nual revenue, including Wales, did not exceed £l,500,000 r 
or $7,200,000. 

It appears, however, by the report of a commission on 
church revenues, appointed by the king, which was made in 
June, 1834, that the annual revenues of the established 
Church of England and Wales had risen from the statement 
of the Bishop of Llandaflf and others, to the gross sum of 
£3,784,985, or $18,167,928 ! And this, it maybe observed, is 
still an ex parte statement ; that is, it is made by a commission, 
all of whom are interested in concealment, and who would 
naturally disclose only what is unavoidable. The report, by 
their own confession, is imperfect ; and it is certain, that the 
number of heavy items of income to the church of classes 
of funds the sole use of which is realized by the clergy, and 
of direct and indirect imposts on the public for the mainte- 
nance and benefit of the church, is greater than the number 
imbodied in the report. Nor is it certain by what rule or 
rules the estimate comprehended in this report is made. 

We are informed, in one of the items of the report of this 
commission, that the gross annual revenue of the several 
Archiepiscopal and Episcopal Sees in England and Wales, is 
.£180,462. It was stated by the London Times last spring, 
that the regular annual income of the Archbishop of York 
is £20,000, independent of the fines imposed on the renewal 
of leases, which occasionally happen to be equal to £100,000 
in a single windfall, as it is called ; and that the Bishop of 
London's income will soon be £60,000. J. Marshall, in 
his Analysis, &c, 1835, the latest and best authority, says r 
that the single Parish of Paddington, in the See of London, 
was estimated to yield, in 1834, from £12,000 to £15,000, at 
the disposal of the bishop, for ground-rents of a part of the 
glebe. If there be any good ground for these statements, 
it is evident that the income of these two prelates alone can 
hardly be much short of the sums assigned in this report to 
all the prelates of England and Wales ; at least y that it will 
by-and-by be so. The See of Durham is known to be im- 
mensely rich. I have heard its annual income quoted by 
credible authority at £30,000. 
There are rules of estimating the revenue of the English 



240 WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 

Church by which the public are easily kept in the dark. If, 
for example, the fines alone were left out of this reckoning, 
which is probably the fact, inasmuch as they do not belong 
to the regular annual income, the difference would be im- 
mense. I know not that the Liber Regalis, which contains 
the valuation of church property, as it stood nearly three cen- 
turies ago, has been taken as the rule of determining the 
revenue in this report ; probably not ; but heretofore it has 
been universally assumed in such cases ; and for other pur- 
poses it is still applied. 

It is but very recently, when a statement was before the 
public, that the average annual income of 17 livings, in the 
gift of the late speaker of the House of Commons and four 
others, is .£11,170, one tenth of which, that is, £1,170, by 
the statute of Queen Anne, is due for the augmentation of 
poor benefices of the real tenths ; but that law, under the val- 
uation of the Liber Regalis, is evaded by the payment of 
£23 ! That is, the annual income of these 17 benefices, 
instead of being reported by the incumbents for what it ac- 
tually is, viz. £1 1,170, is reported according to the valuation 
of the Liber Regalis, £231, so that the poor benefices, entitled 
to the annual augmentation of £1,170 from this source, are 
actually augmented only £23; and the other fraction of 
£1,147, goes by this rule into the pockets of the fortunate 
incumbents ! 

Moreover: There are several sources of wealth and 
income to the Church of England not comprehended in this 
report. Having presented the ex parte statements of the 
royal commission, which exclude so many items, and which 
are so doubtful as to the rules employed to obtain the result, 
let us now look at the statements of the Reformers, which 
are commonly supposed to be near the truth : — 

From Church tithe, 6,884,800/. 

Income of bishopricks, 207,115 

Estates of the Deans and Chapters, . . . 494,000 

Glebes and parsonage-houses, .... 250,000 

Perpetual curacies, 75,000 

Benefices not parochial, 32,450 

Fees for burials, marriages, christenings, &c, . 500,000 
Oblations, offerings, and compositions, for the four 

Great Festivals, 80,000 

College and school foundations, .... 682,150 

Lectureships in towns and populous places, . . 60,000 

Chaplainships and offices in public institutions, . 10,000 

New churches and chapels, .... 94,050 

Total revenues of the established Clergy 9,459,565/. 

In Federal money this would be $45,405,912. This sum 
total is realized — monopolized rather — by 7,694 individuals 
— prelates, dignitaries, and incumbents — a large part of 
whom are pluralists, non-residents, and sinecurists. If tins. 



WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 241 

sum were divided equally among them all, it would average 
to each £1,228, or $6,182. According to the report of the 
royal commission of 1834, £424,796 of this £9,459,565 is 
dispensed by the incumbents for the compensation of 5,282 
curates, who supply their places, averaging for each curate 
£80, or $384 — that is, while they who do the work receive 
on an average $384 each, they who do not work get an av- 
erage of $5,798. Of these poor curates 294 receive less 
than £50 a year — some down as low as £20. It should be 
understood, that a part of those who get the money, and 
have the use of it, are at the posts of their duty, although 
it must be allowed they are tolerably well paid for it. 

The average annual revenue of the kingdom of Prussia 
is 189,761,900 francs, or £7,590,432. About £2,000,000 of 
this is appropriated to the sinking fund debt, leaving a bal- 
ance of £5,590,432 for the ordinary purposes of government. 
It will appear, therefore, if we split the difference between 
the report of the revenues of the Church of England, as 
made by the royal commission in 1834, and the averments 
of Reformers, we shall have £6,622,275 for the expenses of 
the Church of England, which is £1,031,843 in excess of the 
annual cost of the kingdom of Prussia for all the purposes 
of government, the public debt excepted ! 

Setting aside the interest of the national debt of Great 
Britain (which, by-the-by, is rather a weighty matter), the 
official estimates for all other purposes of government for 
1835 were as follows : — 

The Army - - £6,497,903 

Navy 4,578,009 

Ordnance - 1,166,914 

Miscellaneous - 2,228,387 

Total, £14,471,213- 

A little more than half in excess of the cost of the church, 
taking the medium of the two extreme estimates as above. 
If we add the church rates, somewhat more than half a 
million, which item has not been noticed, the cost of litiga- 
tion between the people and the clergy, and the building of 
new churches out of the appropriation by parliament of 
£1,500,000 for this purpose, it will raise the sum to nearly 
or quite half of the expenses of government. 

The average annual cost of the government of the Uni- 
ted States during Monroe's administration was less than 
$10,000,000; during John Quincy Adams's it was a little 
more than $12,000,000 ; during the first four years of Jack- 
son's it was over $16,000,000. But the annual expense of 
the English Church at the above medium rate is $31,786,920, 
considerably more than double the average annual cost of 
the United States government for the periods above named. 
L 2i 



212 



WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 



And yet the ministers of the British crown say it ought not 
to be retrenched. They are men of liberal views. 

The following is a curious statement of the decrease of 
fidelity in the ministry, with the increase of compensa- 
tion : — 

" The small diocess of Ely, in 1813, compared with the year 1728. 



45 



In 1813 

On the same 140 livings. 
Resident Incumbents. 

Seventeen who reside near and 
perform the duty. 

Thirty-five curates, some of 
whom reside 8, 10, or 12 miles off. 

The population is 82,176 souls. 
The service is performed about 
185 times every Sunday. 

And their income is 161,474/. 
per annum. 



In 1728. 

On 140 livings, 70 Resident In- 
cumbents. 

Thirty-four who reside near and 
perform the duty. 

Thirty-one curates who reside 
in the parish or near it. 

The population was 56,944 
souls. The duty was performed 
261 times every Sunday. 

And their income 12,719/. per 
annum. 

Duty neglected in proportion as it became more important and bet- 
ter paid. The population increased nearly one half, and the number 
of times service is performed diminished one third. The revenues 
increased almost five fold, and the number of resident incumbents de- 
creased one third." 

How this applies to the present state of things, and to 
England generally, I am unable to say. 

The following comparative estimate of the expense of 
supporting Christianity in different parts of the world is 
curious, and may perhaps be instructive. Without pre- 
tending to vouch for its correctness, I introduce it here, as 
I found it published by no mean authority in Great Brit- 



Comparalive Expense of the Church of England and of Christianity 
in all other Countries of the World. 







Expendi- 


Total amount 




Number of 


ture on the 


of Expendi- 


Name of the Nations. 


Hearers. 


clergy per 


ture in each 






million of Nation. 






hearers. 




France - 


32,000,000 


£62,000 


£2,000,000 


United States - 


9,600,000 


60,000 


576,000 


Spain - 


11,000,000 


100,000 


1,100,000 


Portugal - - - - 


3,000,000 


100,000 


300,000 


Hungary, Catholics - 


4,000,000 


80,000 


320,000 


Calvinists - 


1,050,000 


60,000 


63,000 


Lutherans - 


650,000 


40,000 


26,000 


Italy - 


19,391,000 


40,000 


776,000 


Austria - 


18,918,000 


50,000 


950,000 


Switzerland ... 


1,720,000 


50,000 


87,000 


Prussia .... 


10,536,000 


50,000 


527,000 


German small States 


12,763,000 


60,000 


765,000 


Holland - , - 


2,000,000 


80,000 


160,000 



WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 243 



Netherlands -■■■. - 


6,000,000 


42,000 


252,000 


Denmark - 


1,700,000 


70,000 


119,000 


Sweden - 


3,400,000 


70,000 


238,000 


Russia, Greek Church 


34,000,000 


15,000 


510,000 


Catholics and Lutherans 


8,000,000 


50,000 


400,000 


Christians in Turkey - 


6,000,000 


30,000 


180,000 


South America - 


15,000,000 


30,000 


450,000 


Christians dispersed elsewhere 


3,000,000 


50,000 


150,000 



203,728,000 9,949,000 

England and Wales - - 6,500,000 1,455,316 9,459,565 

" Hence, it appears, the administration of Church of Englandism to 
6,500,000 hearers costs nearly as much as the administration of all other 
forms of Christianity in all parts of the world to 203,728,000 hearers. 

" Of the different forms of Christianity the Romish is the most ex- 
pensive. A Roman Catholic clergyman cannot go through the duties 
of his ministry well for more than 1,000 persons. The masses, auric- 
ular confessions, attendance on the sick, and other observances, make 
his duty more laborious than those of a Protestant clergyman with 
double the number of hearers : add to which, the cost of wax lights, 
scenery, and other accompaniments peculiar to Catholic worship. 
Notwithstanding these extra outgoings, we find that the administra- 
tion of the Episcopalian Reformed Religion in England to one million 
of hearers, costs the people fourteen times more than the administra- 
tion of Popery to the same number of hearers in Spain or Portugal, 
and more than forty times the administration of Popery in France. 

"Dissenters, like churchmen, are compelled to contribute to the 
support of the ministers and churches of the established religion, be- 
sides having to maintain, by voluntary payments, their own pastors and 
places of worship. In France all religions are maintained by the state, 
without distinction ; all persons have access to the universities and 
public schools : in England, only one religion is maintained by the 
state ; and all dissenters from the national worship are excluded from 
the universities and colleges, and from the masterships of grammar- 
schools, and other public foundations, endowed by our common ances- 
tors, for the general promotion of piety and learning. 

" The monstrous excess in the pay of the English clergy appears 
from comparing their average income with the incomes of the clergy 
of equal rank in other countries. In France an archbishop has only 
1,041/. a year; a bishop 625/.; an archdeacon 166/. ; a canon or pre- 
bend 100/. ; a rector 48/. ; a curate 31/. In Rome the income of a 
cardinal, the next in dignity to the pope, is 400^. to 500/. a year ; of a 
rector of a parish 30/. ; of a curate 17/. : compare these stipends with 
the enormous incomes of the English clergy ; and, making allowance 
for ditference in the expense of living in the respective countries, the 
disparity in the ecclesiastical remuneration appears incredible." 

It is evident, that the author of the preceding table of 
comparison leaves entirely out of view the immense estates 
of the Church of Rome, and the ten thousand devices em- 
ployed by her ministers in raising money, bringing into his 
account only the direct imposts of that church, which are a 
mere and trilling fraction of the sources of her income. 
L 2 



244 WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 

In a work at the British Museum, published in 1717, under 
the title of " A Summary of all the Religious Houses in 
England and Wales, with their titles and valuations at the 
time of their dissolution" — the number of such houses of 
all classes at that time — in the reign of Henry VIII. — is 
stated at 1,041 ; the aggregate annual valuation of them at 
the same period was £273,106, reckoning only the rent of 
the manors and produce of the demesnes, and excluding 
fines, heriots, renewals, dividends, &c. This sum would 
be represented in 1717, a little less than 200 years after- 
ward, as stated by the same authority, by £3,277,282, as a 
consequence of the decrease in the value of money. As- 
suming that the decrease has been in the same proportion 
for the last century, it would now be represented by about 
£20,000,000, or $96,000,000. 

The proportion of the land of the country, held by the 
church at that time, and of which the monks were lords, is 
stated at fourteen parts in twenty. In 1815 the annual assess- 
ed value of the real property of England and Wales, as stated 
in parliamentary records, was £51,874,490. Fourteen twen- 
tieths of this sum, being the ancient proportion of the church 
revenue, would be about £34,500,000, or $166,987,168 ! a 
sum three fourths as large as the present annual revenue of 
the government of Great Britain, from all its sources and for 
all its purposes ! It should be borne in mind that the assessed 
value of property in England is many times (I know not how 
many) below its real value. Besides this amazing absorption 
of the public wealth by the regular orders of the priesthood, 
there were four orders of mendicant monks, who not only 
lived on the residue of the property of the country, but ab- 
stracted large sums for their pious purposes. 

It is stated by the same authority that the Grand Duke 
of Tuscany — which is a district of Italy 150 miles by 100 
— once ascertained and published, that the Church of Rome 
absorbed seventeen parts in twenty of the revenue of the land 
within his jurisdiction. These two items may go to show 
the expense of an established religion to the public two and 
three centuries ago, as sustained in Roman Catholic countries. 
It might be more or less in different parts of Europe. If we 
take the fourteen twentieths as an average, it will be no tri- 
fling matter to think of in these days, as a condition of so- 
ciety to which civilized nations have long submitted. Italy, 
Spain, and Portugal are not much better off even now — ex- 
cept as the latter, since the expulsion of Don Miguel, has 
taken some thorough-going measures of relief. 

In France, under the old regime, in 1789, the annual 
revenues of the church were 405,000,000 of francs, or 
£16,200,000, or $77,760,000. Now it is 32,200,000 francs, 
or £1,288,000, or $6,182,400, and divided among Catholics 
and Protestants according to their numbers. 



WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 245 

It is calculated that one fourth of the soil of Spain is still 
in possession of the church. According to a very moderate 
estimate, much probably below the mark, it is said that this 
ecclesiastical portion yields a rent, or at least would yield a 
rent, of .£5,000,000, or would bring, if sold at 25 years' pur- 
chase, £125,000,000. This is independent of the value of 
the buildings, of the live stock, and of the rent of houses in 
cities, which belong to the beneficiaries of cathedrals, to the 
higher clergy, or to monasteries, and which may probably 
amount to £40,000,000 more. In this estimate we speak 
only of the real property of the monastic orders, and of the 
high secular clergy with its appertenances, and make no ref- 
erence to the tithes of the secular clergy, to the income ari- 
sing from masses and offerings, or to the other more spiritual 
sources of their income. These would be more than neces- 
sary to support in affluence the clergy of the most extensive 
and wealthy countries of Europe, exceeding by four or five 
times the sum allotted to the French church, which extends 
its spiritual sceptre over more than double the population 
of Spain. Though by the very oppressions of the church it- 
self — though by the enormous sweep of the domainial and ec- 
clesiastical property, which, according to M. Canga Arguel- 
les, has grasped one third of the lands of the kingdom, the 
tithes from the remainder have been calculated at the gross 
amount of £7,500,000. 

The sum which the church property of Spain would yield, 
after providing for the decent maintenance of the clergy, 
was calculated by the cortes of 1822, when joined to cer- 
tain royal domains lying useless to the state, to amount to 
.£92,000,000, or $441,600,000. 

The present entire annual revenue of the Spanish church 
is £10,514,000 ; that of the state, as lately reported by Count 
de Toreno, is about £5,000,000, and liable to a deficit of 
«£3,000,000 by the plunder practised in the modes of collec- 
tion, &c. This estimate of the annual revenues of the 
Spanish church is made, first, from the rents, &c, as ascer- 
tained from the cadastral bases of the 22 generalities of Cas- 
tile and Arragon ; and next, from the tithes and casual in- 
comes, as reported by the minister, Martin de Garay, and 
other economists. 

According to the census of 1826, the ecclesiastics of 
Spain were as follows : — 61 archbishops and bishops; 2,363 
canons; 1,869 prebends; 16,481 parish priests; 17,411 su- 
perior incumbents ; 9,411 inferior incumbents; 3,497 postu- 
lans; 27 candidates for livings; 11,300 hermits; 61,327 monks; 
31,400 nuns; 4.928 curates; 15,015 sacristans; 3,225 servi- 
tors of churches ; 20,346 lay members, performing divers re- 
ligious functions; and 7,393 secular ladies; — making a total 
of 206,002 ; or 160,043 ecclesiastics properly, and 45,979 in- 
cumbents of other descriptions. The ecclesiastics of 



246 WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 

France, before the downfall of the Bourbons, were more than 
400,000; they are now reduced to 40,000. The present 
population of Spain is 14,186,000 ; of France, less than 
33,000,000. 

The process of converting the national religion of Great 
Britain from Popery to Protestantism, which was principally 
apolitical measure, made it quite convenient for the new 
and self-appointed head of the church to appropriate to 
himself and to his dependants large proportions of those im- 
mense endowments of a church, which was dissolved by his 
authority. Of course the Church of England has since been 
less wealthy ; but what she lost in this particular, she gain- 
ed in dignity and domestic influence. The Church of Eng- 
land from that time became a Dissenter, under the name of 
Protestantism. She set up for Independence, and by the 
help of her princes and heads, with some little exceptions, 
has maintained it, so far as her relation to the pope is con- 
cerned. The separation has greatly magnified her impor- 
tance. Before, she was a distant, provincial department of 
a church universal and apostolic ; her priests were all sub- 
servient, and the prince at the head of the British govern- 
ment was an abject. The new system of Independence 
raised the priesthood at once to a dignity and importance 
which they had never enjoyed before. If it could be main- 
tained, both the king and the church had every reason to be 
satisfied : the king, not only because he could then be a 
king, but because he was greatly enriched by the spoils of 
the church; and the church, now a Dissenter and Inde- 
pendent, because she could organize a domestic system of 
hierarchy, more splendid and more magnificent, than any 
thing she could enjoy as a mere dependant branch of a head, 
whose glory emanated from the triple crown at Rome. 
England, the first of nations, rising in respectability and ex- 
tending her influence, could better satisfy the aspirations of 
" the Primate of all England," and of his dependant clergy, 
than could the waning power of the Pope. It was better 
to sacrifice a moiety of the wealth, and receive in compen- 
sation the privileges, dignities, and power of an independent 
condition — independent so far as respected a foreign spirit- 
ual supremacy. None can doubt that the domestic influence 
and dignities of the Church of England have been greatly 
enhanced by a separation from the Church of Rome. The 
religious houses and the whole system of popery had fallen 
into great disrespect. The change of system was in all re- 
spects more agreeable to the parties in England. The clergy 
might marry ; they might have all reasonable indulgences 
without tax or penance. The archbishops and bishops 
could be princes, and have been so ever since. Lambeth 
Palace, for every thing that flesh could desire, is as good as 



WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 



247 



the Vatican ; the Episcopal sees of England and Ireland are 
better than the rule of the smaller states of Europe, because 
they have all the wealth that could be wished, under the 
shadow and protection of a throne, without a throne's re- 
sponsibility ; and the numerous rich livings still left are 
enough to satisfy a love of ease and independence for scores 
and hundreds of high and influential candidates. 

It is proper, however, here to observe, that Episcopacy, 
whether it be an Apostolic institution or not — whatever be 
its merits in the abstract, as an ecclesiastical polity and 
government — has no responsibility in the character, opera- 
tion, and results of the Church of England, as an establish- 
ment set up by the state. It was the monarchy of England 
that made it in this particular a political institution ; and it 
is the monarchy and aristocracy which have used it as such. 
It is the misfortune of the Episcopacy of Great Britain, and 
not its fault, that it has been allied to the state. 

The following is a statement showing the mode in which 
the revenues of the Church of England, supposed to amount 
to .£9,459,565, are distributed among the different orders of 
clergy. It has been furnished by the Reformers :— 



Class. 
Episcopal 
Clergy, 



Dignita- 
ries, &c. 



Parochial 
Clergy. 



2 Archbishops 
24 Bishops - 
28 Deans - 
61 Archdeacons 
26 Chancellors 
514 Prebendaries and Canons 
j 330 Precentors, Succentors, Vi- 
| cars-General, Minor Can- 

ons, Priest- Vicars, Vicars 
Choral, and other Mem- 
bers of Cathedral and Col- 
^ legiate churches - 
( 2886 Aristocratic Pluralists, \ 
mostly non-resident, and | 
holding two, three, four or j 
more livings, in all 7,037 )» 
livings, averaging each, f 
tithes, glebes, church- | 
fees, &c. 764J. - -J 
4305 Incumbents, holding one > 
living each, and about I 
one half resident on their | 
benefices - - -J 

Total 



Average in- 




come of each 


Total 


individual. 


incomes. 


£26,465 


£52,930 


10,174 


244,185 


1,580 


44,250 


739 


45,126 


494 


12,844 


545 


280,130 



338 



111,650 



1,863 5,379,430 



764 3,289,020 



£9,459,565 



Of course the poor curates — who for the most part con- 



1248 WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 

stitute the working clergy, in number 5,282, and supply the 
places of the aristocratic and other incumbents, who can well 
afford, and who are disposed to be absent from their livings 
— are paid the aggregate and annual sum of .£424,996, out 
of the £9,459,565. 

The people of England belonging to the established 
Church have not the power of choosing their own ministers, 
but with the exception of perhaps 1,000 congregations, they 
are appointed as follows : — 

By the King or his proxies, . . . 1,048 

Archbishops and Bishops, . . 1,301 

Deans and Chapters, . . . 989 

University of Oxford, , . . 314 

University of Cambridge, . . 283 

Collegiate establishments, . . 146 

Private individuals, . . . 6,619 



10,700 



There are 649 other chapels and churches, not parochial, 
making the total number of livings 11,349. Total number 
of preferments, including those not appertaining to churches 
and chapels, is 12,327. These do not include some two or 
three hundred churches, erected under the church building 
acts. It may also vary slightly from some other statements 
that are published, as there are changes occasionally occur- 
ring. But it cannot differ materially from the present state 
of things. About 5,000 of the livings of the church of 
England and Wales are in the gift of the aristocracy, and 
are of course conferred upon their younger sons and family 
connexions, whatever may be their character. The aristoc- 
racy depend upon the church, the army, and the navy, to 
provide, first, for their younger sons, and sons-in-law ; and 
next, for collateral connexions, and such as are in favour 
with them. Church livings are so many pieces of property, 
not at the disposal of the respective congregations, but to 
be conferred by those who have the gift of them, on their 
friends. In this way, two, three, four, or more rich livings 
are often bestowed on a single individual. For example, 
the eldest son of the Bishop of Ely has held six preferments 
at the same time, from his father's hand, worth £4,500, or 
$21,600 annually. His son-in-law has been presented with 
three by the bishop, worth £3,700, or $17,760. Another son 
has held six at the same time by his father's gift— worth 
£4,000, or $19,200. The total annual income of the family 
from these sources, including the bishop's, is quoted at 
£39,742, or $191,721 ; and this appropriated by a father, 
his two sons, and a son-in-law. The Beresford family, in 
all its branches, at the head of which is the Archbishop of 
Armagh, in Ireland, is said to realize annually from ih& 






WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 249 

church, army, and navy by patronage, principally from the 
church, £100,000, or $480,000. Warburton, Bishop of 
Cloyne, a poor man at the beginning, left from his acquisi- 
tions out of his diocess £120,000, or $576,000, to his chil- 
dren. It was stated by Sir John Newport in parliament, 
that three Irish bishops within fifteen years had left to 
their families £700,000, or $3,360,000* average to each 
$1,120,000. A former bishop of Cloyne, as I have seen 
stated, went to Ireland without a shilling, and after eight 
years died worth more than £300,000, or $1,440,000. The 
late Earl of Bristol, Bishop of Derry, residing twenty years 
abroad, without being nice in the choice of his company, and 
received in the meantime from his diocess revenues to the 
amount of £240,000, or $1,152,000. More than one third of 
the incumbents of the Irish Protestant Church are non- 
residents, some of whom with incomes from £5,000 to 
£10,000, abstracted from the parishes, are living on the con- 
tinent with their families. 

The Archbishop of Cashel has livings in his gift worth 
£35,000, or $168,000 annually ; those in the gift of the Bish- 
op of Cloyne are quoted at £50,000, or $240,000, as their 
annual value ; ditto of the Bishop of Cork, at £30,000, or 
$144,000; ditto of the Bishop of Femes, at £30,000, or 
$144,000. One might make many friends comfortable with 
endowments of this description at his disposal. 

The following is a summary of ecclesiastical statistics of 
Ireland, reported to Parliament in 1835, by the Commis- 
sioners for public Instruction. 

population, 1834. 

Roman Catholics, 6,427,712 

Members of the Established Church, .... 852,064 

Presbyterians, 642,236 

Other Protestant Dissenters, 21,808 

Total, 7,943,940 

PROPORTION PER CENTUM TO THE TOTAL POPULATION. 

Members of the Established Church, 10,726 

Roman Catholics, . 80,913 

Presbyterians, f . . . . 886 

Other Protestant Dissenters, 275 

NUiMBER OF PLACES OP WORSHIP. 

Established Church.— Churches, 1,338 

Other places of Worship, 196 

Roman Catholic, 2,105 

Presbyterian, 452 

Other Protestant Dissenters, 403 

Total, 4,494 

L3 



250 WEALTH OP THE CHURCH. 

PARISHES OR DISTRICT8 

With Provision for the Cure of Souls, .... 2,348 

Without Provision for the Cure, of Souls, . . . .57 



Total, 2,405 

Number of members of the Established Church, in 1834, in 
Parishes or Districts without Provision for the Cure of 
Souls, 3,030 

NUMBER OF BENEFICES 

Consisting of single parishes, 907 

Being unions of two or more parishes, .... 478 

Total, 1,385 

To provide a religion for 852,064 souls belonging to the es- 
tablished Church, Ireland is divided into 2,450 parishes, with 
only 1,140 churches. Out of 18,000,000 English acres, which 
comprehends the whole of Ireland, 990,000, more than a 
twentieth, are the property of the established church, and 
the remainder subject to tithes and other imposts for the 
maintenance of that church. The gross annual amount ex- 
acted from Ireland in all ways for this purpose, as stated in 
official returns, is £937,456— $4,599,788. But these official 
reports, being always made by the party interested in con- 
cealment, are not fully confided in. The other party make 
the estimate £1,426,687. Split the difference, as in the es- 
timates for the English Church, and we shall have £1,182,021, 
or $5,673,700. This capital prize is drawn — in rather un- 
equal portions, indeed — among four archbishops, eighteen* 
suffragan bishops, and 1,270 clerical incumbents, a large 
fraction of whom are non-residents. The popular party, 
whom their opponents call radicals, taking their own esti- 
mate as a basis, divide it as follows : — Among the arch- 
bishops and bishops, on an average of £10,000 each, is 
£220,000 ; deans and chapters, £250,000 ; the other clergy, 
£956,587; total, £1,426,587. 

Assuming the medium of £1,182,021 as a provision for 
the cure of 852,064 souls, and comparing it with the present 
economy for the church establishment of France, it stands 
thus : — For the cure of 33,000,000 of souls, France pays 
32,200,000 francs, or £1,288,000, or $6,182,400, a little less 
than one franc, or about eightpence sterling per head. The 
result is, that the support of religion for 852,064 souls in Ire- 
land costs a small fraction less than for 33,000,000 in France ! 

But this is not all : To maintain this system in Ireland it 
is necessary to lodge an army there to keep the peace, 
which these impositions disturb, and to enforce the collec- 

* The sees of Ireland have lately been consolidated from 22 into 12 ; 
not, however, to disturb the present incumbents. 



WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 251 

tion of the various church dues. The expense of the army 
in Ireland from April 1st, 1833, to March 31st, 1834, was 
£1,025,621 ; and of the police a little less than £300,000; 
total, say, £1,300,000. 

Again : The lawsuits between the people and the clergy, 
on account of tithes, &c, from 1817 to 1821, were 100,000 
cases ! We can only say of this item, from the known ex- 
pense of law in Great Britain, that it could not be trifling. 
On an average of £5 to a case, it would be £500,000, or 
£125,000 a year. Whether this be too much or too little, 
I know not. Here, then, is a religion for 852,064 souls, which 
annually costs, directly and indirectly, the gross sum of 
£2,607,021, or $12,513,700, exacted principally from apopu- 
lation of 7,090,876, who are in conscience opposed to this reli- 
gion, by the constant presence of an overwhelming physical 
force, without which not a penny could be collected; and by 
the demonstration of which, with the occasional application 
of powder and ball, the public mind is kept in a perpetual state 
of most unkindly irritation ! But for the present enlightened 
state of the public mind, which for the most part can distin- 
guish between pure Christianity and such a system, it would 
be a sore scandal, that what is called Christianity should, 
for the time of its continuance, bar all hope of the civiliza- 
tion of a race, sufficiently barbarous without these irritating 
causes. To show that this imputation is sustained by high 
authority — authority connected by birth and in affection with 
the Church of England — I would offer the following remarks 
of the discreet Lord John Russell, in a late address to his 
constituents of Devonshire, April, 1835 : — 

11 With regard to the Church of Ireland, the case is widely different. 
I refused to assist in making perpetual parochial sinecures where the 
clergyman and his clerk, week after week and year after year, formed 
the whole of the congregation. Besides the general injustice and 
glaring absurdity of this system, it is easily proved that the maintenance 
of these ecclesiastical sinecures irritates the people of Ireland, weakens 
the reputation of the British crown abroad, and injures the Protestant 
religion which it is intended to promote. 

" Let us add to these evils, that the present system cannot be main- 
tained except by a large military force, which in case of foreign war 
must of necessity be greatly augmented. Burdensome to England, 
sanguinary in Ireland, disturbing the peace of society, and injurious to 
the religion it professes to serve — no eloquence can recommend, and 
no talents can long maintain so vicious a policy." 

On another occasion, Lord John Russell said ; — 

" In the greater part of the south of Ireland, the clergy enjoy an 
income from tithe, but are as totally unconnected with the religious 
instruction of the great mass of the people as any one thing can pos- 
sibly be from another. In some parishes, containing from 2,000 to 
3,000 inhabitants, there is no member of the established church ; ia 



252 SLAUGHTER OF RATHCORMAC. 

others, perhaps one Protestant gentleman, with his wife and one or two 
of his servants, attends the established church. If that were all, I 
should only say, it was an anomaly ; but what I feel is, that in order 
to support the system, it is necessary also to support troops of police 
and cavalry, and that the maintenance of the system is attended by the 
shedding of the blood of the king's subjects.'''' 

Ill December, 1834, the Rev. William Ryder, archdeacon, 
incumbent of the parish of Gurtroe, near Rathcormac, Cork 
county, Ireland, having obtained a military force from the 
new government (Peel's administration), proceeded to dis 
train for £5 of tithe dues against the widow Ryan. Being 
himself a magistrate, he headed the troops, and as appeared 
from the testimony of witnesses afterward examined, when 
pressed on all sides by the exasperated populace, he gave 
orders, first, to draw sivords ; next, to load ; and at last, to 
J%re ! Nine persons were killed, and as many wounded ! 

The population of the parish is 2,900 Papists, and twenty- 
nine Protestants, thirteen of the last being members of the 
archdeacon's family. The tithes of the parish are £ 1,500, 
or $7,200. Setting aside the thirteen members of the arch- 
deacon's family, it would appear that more persons were 
actually shot down by him than there were members of his 
congregation ; and nine were sent into eternity ! it being- 
more than half the number of his congregation, which, 
aside from his own family, amounted only to sixteen. As 
was very proper, the archdeacon and the other magistrates 
who assisted him were endicted before a grand jury for 
wilful murder. They will doubtless be acquitted, as the 
murder was legalized. 

The following are brief extracts from an Irish paper, giv- 
ing an account of the examination before the grand jury : — 

" ' Widow Ryan,' said Archdeacon Ryder, riding up to her door 
after having killed her son, ' you would not come to me till I showed 
you the law was too strong for you.' I then told him I would pay him 
his tithes to save my children's lives." — Widow Ryan's evidence. 

" Poor woman ! she did not know, when she promised to pay the 
tithes, that her son was dead ! ' When I first heard the sogers were 
coming,' said the twice widowed mother, ' I was knitting a stocking 
for Dick. May the great God forgive him all his sins, and rest his 
soul in peace this day !' Dick is the one that was killed. 

" ' And I went to look at the dead bodies,' says the widow, ' to see, 
would I know their faces. I turned two of them on their backs, and 
they were strangers. I then looked down to the end of my barn, and I 
saw my fine boy looking at me with the whites of his eyes and his 
mouth open ! I staggered down to him, and I caught his pulse : and 
he had no pulse. I put my mouth to his mouth, and he had no breath. 
I then began to shut his eyes and to close his lips, and Dick Willis 
cried out — Don't stop his breath. O Dick ! says I, he has no breath 
to stop, and no heart to beat. With that I caught his head, and my 
daughter caught his feet, and we stretched him in his blood where he 






SLAUGHTER OF RATHCORMAC. 253 

lay ; and though my eyeballs are like two burning coals, I cried no 
tear since.' Thus the mother of Dick Ryan. 

" Another widow, Mrs. Collins, had two sons shot dead on this occa- 
sion, one thirty-two, and the other thirty years of age. When their 
lifeless, but still bleeding bodies, were brought into her house, she 
threw herself on them and exclaimed in Irish, ' They are not dead, 
for they are giving their blood.' But finding them cold and breath- 
less, the terrible truth could no longer be concealed, and she became 
delirious, and was in this state of mind torn from the corpses of her 
sons by her friends, but not till she had actually tasted their blood ! 
She remained in a state bordering on insanity for some days, and even 
still forgets that her sons are dead. 

" On marching down the Middleton road, about half a quarter of a 
mile from the Widow Ryan's premises, the reverend tithe-owner, 
Archdeacon Ryder, ordered the troops to halt, and said to his lay- 
brother, ' that no good would result from the proceeding if they did 
not return and bring away the corn' — (! !) for which purpose they had 
their own horses and carts with the party ; but this course was firmly 
protested against by the third magistrate, and reluctantly given up. 

" His reverence also said to the Widow Ryan, when she consented 
to pay her tithes, before she knew of her son's death, ■ Will you do it 
now!' — ' No,'- said the widow, ' for I have not the money in the house ; 
but I will pay you some day in the week.' With that he put his hand 
in his pocket for a Bible to swear her," 

" A widow sat by her fire alone, 
With her head upon her knee, 
And she made a sad and a bitter moan, 
aying, ' Wo, ah ! wo is me ! 

" ' The Orangemen came, and the grass grew red ; 
They came with sword and gun. 
Their bullets sped, and my son is dead, 
My son, my only son !' 

" The widow knelt, and she muttered low, 
' On the men of Rathcormac wo ! wo ! wo !' 
The curse of the widow who shall bear ! 
God of the childless hear her prayer !" 

From the Limerick Star : — 

" The dreadful condition of the parish of St. Mary in this city ia 
already known to the public. Of this parish the very Rev. Dean 
Preston is the Protestant rector, and the Rev. Mr. H. Gubbins acts 
in the capacity of his curate. The collection of tithes is left in Mr. 
Gubbins's hands. A poor widow, named Eliza Mullins, now living at 
Newgate Lane, in the parish above named, was lately lying on a sick 
bed in her room, to which she had been confined by ill health for the 
last three months. This woman, we understand, had once been in 
more comfortable circumstances ; but subsequently became so much 
reduced in means, that on the death of her mother, which took place 
about two months since, she was unable to procure a coffin for her 
parent until a subscription was raised for the purpose. On the morn- 
ing before mentioned she was preparing to rise, and sit a little while 
before her fire, when a bailiff entered and demanded three shillings as 
22 



254 PETITION OF THE ARMY. 

the amount of Mr. Gubbins's poundage (rate on the pound as voted by 
the parish). The poor woman told him she had not the money ; and 
that she had never paid more than two shillings poundage to Mr. 
Gubbins. The bailiff said one shilling was due since the year previous, 
but this she declared she had already paid to a former collector. 
However, on his persisting, she offered him one shilling, which she 
said was all she then had in the house, and promised to give him the 
remainder on the day following. Her entreaties, however, were with- 
out effect ; the man left her, and in a short time returned with two 
other bailiffs, in a state of intoxication. In lieu of Mr. Gubbins's three 
shillings, they seized one kettle, one washing-tub, one large tray, one 
umbrella, two old quilts, one gown, one petticoat, and went their way. 
She rose from her sick bed, dressed herself in her few remaining gar- 
ments, which Mr. Gubbins's faithful emissaries had left her, and pro- 
ceeded to the Exchange. Here she deemed herself fortunate in find- 
ing Mr. Gubbins himself ; to him she made the same representation 
and the same request, as she had done already to his bailiff; and we 
regret for his sake, for hers, and for humanity, to add, with the same 
success. The poor woman then went to her house, and spent the 
whole of that night lying on the hearthstone by the fireside, for the 
want of the necessary clothing on her bed. On the following morning 
she sent for her own clergyman to administer to her the last rites of 
her religion. We have some satisfaction in adding, that by the charity 
of a few individuals, who heard of the circumstances, the poor woman's 
kettle, quilts, &c, were restored, and that Mr. Gubbins got his three 
shillings, and one shilling costs. What effect the whole transaction 
may have upon the mind and body of the infirm, unhappy creature, re- 
mains to be seen. She lies at present, we understand, in a very dan- 
gerous state." ****** * * * 

" The following letter has been left at our office : — 

" To the Editor of the Star and Evening Post. 

" Sir, — Will you return thanks for me, if you please, to Thomas 
Devitt, Esq., for the one pound which he sent me, to release my kettle, 
and old tray, and parasol, and tub, and also my petticoat, and two old 
quilts, which were pounded in the Cathedral, for minister's money, due 
to Dean Preston and the Rev. Jno. Gubbins. I also thank Mr. Geary, 
who collected for me a few shillings, only for which I would die of 
cold, having been obliged, after a sickness of three months, on Friday 
night, when my bedclothes and other articles were taken by Hayes 
and the other two church bailiifs, to lie all night on the hearthstone by 
the fire to keep myself warm. 

"Eliza Mullins, widow, of St. Mary's 
" Parish, head of Newgate Lane. 

"October 26, 1834" 

Another extract : — 

" A representation has been made to the commander-in-chief, from 
both officers and soldiers of the army in Ireland, expressive of the total 
repugnance of the army to be employed in the collection of tithes. 
The odious and cruel nature of the exaction, and the degradation of 
brave men in being employed in prosecuting the sale of the widow's 
pig, or the goat upon which infancy subsists, are good reasons. It is 
condemned by the voice of mankind, and repugnant to military honour. ■ 



HYPOTHETICAL. 255 

u The king's troops, infantry and cavalry, were employed for nrarly 
two months in enforcing tithes for the Rev. Mr. Whitty, in the parish 
of Rathvilly." 

The Church of Ireland surely is bad enough. The pres- 
ent state of things there is probably a fair development of 
the tendencies of the system : — Bring a powerful Christian 
hierarchy into alliance with the state ; make it a part of the 
political fabric ; withdraw all power relating to church econ- 
omy from the people, and concentrate it in the hands of a 
few, who sympathize with the head of the nation — who is 
also constituted head of the church, and who will, of course, 
use his influence as such, for political ends. If the church 
be wealthy, as in Great Britain, let the disposal of its bene- 
fices, in other words, the nomination of its priesthood, be 
divided among the chief dignitaries, high corporations, 
wealthy and powerful individuals, civil and ecclesiastical, 
who are interested, first, in providing places for their sons 
and family connexions, and next, in bringing the entire ec- 
clesiastical economy to bear on their political designs. Let 
all the treasures* of the church be regarded as the property 
of the government, and all dues to the church of tithes, or 
in whatever form, as a demand of government, for govern- 
ment purposes. And then, by a moral certainty, the church, 
thus allied to the state, will have a secularized clergy, and 
it will be no scandal, on the principles of such a church, to 
support its rights at the point of the bayonet, and by the 
mouth of the cannon, as in Ireland. It is perfectly con- 
sistent ; it is the legitimate tendency and natural result of 
the system. The public may be shocked at the occasional 
outbreakings of some of these more palpable enormities, 
such as the recent slaughter of Rathcormac ; the authors of 
the mischief may be startled for fear of a reaction ou 
themselves ; but they do not give up the principle ; they do 
not confess that there is any thing wrong, or even improper, 
in all this. They say, the state has a right, first, to make 
these exactions ; and next, to support its authority — that its 
authority must be respected ; and if anybody, with an un- 
submissive temper, comes in the way of it, and falls before 
the bayonet or the cannon, it is his own fault. They have 
no sympathy and no regret on account of these disasters, 
except as it injures themselves. 

And how is it in England] It must be acknowledged, 
that these affairs are managed more decently there than in 
Ireland — that there is less outrage ; but the system is the 
same ; and upon ail dissenters, as well as upon thousands 
who have not dared to dissent, it operates in numberless 
forms, directly and indirectly, most oppressively and cruelly. 

* What right has a Christian church to treasures, except in God and 
the good affections of mankind ? 



256 A FACT. 

" How do you do, Mr. ?" said the rector of , 

within fifty miles of London, to a dissenting clergyman, 
whose chapel, dwelling-house, and garden happened to be 
in the rector's parish. " You have a fine garden here, sir." 

" Oh, yes, sir, I am very fond of a garden. Come, walk 
through, and see it." 

" Indeed, it is not only very pretty, but I should think it 
might be profitable," said the rector, as he surveyed the prem- 
ises in company with his dissenting brother, and while the 
latter took great pleasure in displaying all, and giving the 
history of his improvements. 

" There is about half an acre here, as you see," said the 
dissenting minister. " Half of it is ornamental, where I take 
pleasure with my 13 children ; and the other half furnishes 
vegetables to feed them. You would hardly believe it, but 
this little patch, under the culture of my own hand, goes 
a great way towards supplying the table of my numerous 
family." 

" Indeed, sir. And how many years has it been so pro- 
ductive ?" 

" Some half dozen or more." 

It was a morning call of the rector, for a purpose best 
known to himself, as he had never condescended to visit 
his dissenting brother before. Having seen and been told 
all appertaining to the beauty and profitableness of the gar- 
den, from the open and unsuspecting communications of the 
owner, the rector said — " Good morning," and retired. 

The next day, or soon afterward, the rector's steward 
sent in a bill for tithes on the said garden, of «£6, or nearly 
$29, per year, for six years previous, and the same for the 
then current year — amounting in all to .£42, or about $200 ; 
to continue, as I suppose, at £6, or nearly $29, a year, on a 
quarter of an acre of land ! 

The rector has a wife, but no children, on a living of some 
hundreds of pounds a year, which he can augment at pleas- 
ure by these modes. The dissenting clergyman had a 
family of thirteen children, and a small congregation, which 
could afford him only a slender support — by no means ade- 
quate for the demands of his family. He was astounded at 
this bill ! For it was positively and unavoidably distressing. 

" But you did not pay it !" said I, when he narrated to me 
the facts. 

" Your ignorance of this country, sir, as manifested by 
this question, is very excusable. There is no redress for 
such an imposition — no tribunal for defence, to which a poor 
man will dare to appeal. The ecclesiastical courts, which 
have the supervision of all such matters, will always defend 
the rights of clergymen of the established church. Clergy- 
men of this establishment, as this instance will show, have 
great powers, and a wide reach of discretion, in regard to 



TITHE OPPRESSION. 257 

tithes and other church dues. The law supposes them to 
be good men and reasonable ; and a hundred or a thousand to 
one of those, who appeal to the law for protection against 
these extortions, return saddled with the enormous expense 
of English law. Remedy at law in such cases is absolutely 
and utterly discouraging ; and few but the wealthy and in- 
fluential, who can afford to fight for principle and justice, 
venture upon it. Ordinarily, the oppressions light on those 
who are not likely to show such resistance." 

The following is an extract from a letter to Mr. Secretary 
Stanley, read in the House of Lords by Lord Melbourne in 
1831, and may show further how the poor are affected by 
exactions for an established church : — 

" The broken and irregular character of tithes, in the rust of its 
great antiquity, renders the variety and number of claims on the land 
both harassing and vexatious ; the frequency of calls, and the uncer- 
tainty of receivers, are so varied and perplexing as to occasion much 
annoyance to the poor. There are a vast number of instances where 
one poor man, whose whole tithe*? annually do not amount to more 
than 1*. 8d. per acre, and yet subject him to have his cow, sheep, pig, 
or horse, taken and driven to pound six times in the year for tithes, 
and liable, on each and every driving, to a charge of 2s. 6d. driver's 
fees, besides expense of impounding, and waste of time from his labour 
in seeking the person duly authorized to give him a receipt. He is 
liable to be summoned, moreover, and decreed for vestry cess, once in 
the year, making annually seven calls on account of the church to his 
little plot of ground ; besides, his little holding is liable to two calls in 
the year for grand jury public money, and frequently two calls more 
for crown and quit rent Thus eleven calls are made upon his small 
holding in the year, besides his landlord's rent, and for sums trifling in 
themselves, but perplexing and ruinous in the costs which attend them. 
Surely such are hardships that ought to be removed." 

It is true that this happens to be a picture from Ireland. 
But as it was thought worthy to be read in the House of 
Lords, and is in substance applicable to both countries, 
though under different forms, it is a convenient illustration 
of the general bearings of the laws of tithe, &c. 

"Tell me of the cottage, Lapgin." 

11 God bless you, ma'am, you are cruel fond of hearing of cottages. 
Sure the history of most of them in this country (Ireland) is alike ; a 
wedding, and a little to begin with ; a power of children, and precious 
little to give them ; rack-rent for a bit of land ; turned out, bag and 
baggage, for rent, or for tithe ; beggary, starvation, sickness, death ; 
that, ma'am, is a poor Irishman's calendar, since the world was a world, 
barrin [except] here and there, now and then, when he gets a sight 
of good fortune by mistake." 

Cases like the following are such an every-day occurrence 
in England as to occasion no surprise. It might excite in- 
dignation, if people were not tired of indulging such feelings. 
But they know that the reformed Constitution has placed 
22* 



m m Kmmmmm ■nHMMI 



258 AUCTION SALES OF CHURCH LIVINGS. 

the remedy in their hands, and they only wait an opportu- 
nity to administer it, without a disturbance of the public 
peace. I quote it from a London paper, which has come to 
hand and is now lying before me : — 

" The Birmingham Journal states, that the Rev. J. Ellis, Vicar 
of Wootton Warren, near Henley-on-Arden, lately obtained a warrant 
of distress against a parishioner, for the payment of Easter dues to the 
amount of one shilling, and that a table was seized and sold by auction, 
out of the proceeds of which nine shillings and twopence was deducted 
for the original dues and expenses." 

It would be a curious question to determine the difference 
between the actual costs of such a church to the public and 
its nett revenues ; which, after all, is the only fair estimate 
of its burden to the community. 

Within ten miles of London is a parish where the in- 
cumbent has raised his tithes from £300 a year to £ 1,500. 
I was informed, when I was there, that he is accustomed to 
meet more men from his parish in the ecclesiastical court, 
seeking redress of their grievances, than are disposed to 
appear as his hearers on Sunday — which, indeed, is very 
credible. 

" And will they succeed 1 ?" said I. " It is not at all prob- 
able they will." — "Why, then, do they go there?" — "Be- 
cause they are vexed, and are able to make the sacrifice. 
They think it will do good to make it as public as possible." 

Did the ecclesiastical commission on church revenues 
report £ 1,500, as the tithe product of this parish? Never, 
it may be presumed. And the expense of litigation — to 
what account is that to be put 1 The injury done to society 
by such disturbances is of course never thought of. 

It is no scandal in England — at least, it seems not to op- 
erate as such — that benefices, or livings in the churches, are 
sold at public auction to the highest bidder, over the heads 
of incumbents, by which means a wealthy man can at any 
time make a future provision for his son, and establish him 
in the world by anticipation ; or a Jew may be the pur- 
chaser in his way of speculation on stocks, and nominate 
the preacher of a Christian pulpit. 

The following, for example, is a notice of some sales of 
this kind, taken from a London paper of July 13th, 1824: — 

" The church livings in Essex, sold on the 1st instant by Mr. Rob- 
ins, of Regent-street, were not the absolute advowsons, but the next 
presentations contingent on the lives of Mr. and Mrs. W. T. P. L. 
Wellesley, aged thirty-six and twenty-five years respectively, and were 
as under : 

Plac, ZW !?(1 „, ^~L fjSSL »?*■ 

Wanstead Rectory £653 62 £2,440 

Woodford Ditto 1,200 59 4*200 



CLERICAL FOX-HUNTERS. 259 



Gt. Paindon 


Rectory 


£500 


63 


£1,600 


Fifield 


Ditto 


525 


59 


1,520 


Rochford 


Ditto 


700 


62 


2,000 


Filstead 


Vicarage 


400 


50 


900 


Roydou 


Ditto 


200 


46 


580 



The biddings appeared to be governed by the age and health of the 
incumbents, residence, situation, and other local circumstances, with 
which the parties interested seemed to be well acquainted." 

The following is a curious, and, it may be added, instruct- 
ive advertisement on this point. It is from the London 
Morning Herald, April 15th, 1830 :— 

* 

** To be sold, the next presentation to a vicarage, in one of the mid- 
land counties, and in the immediate neighbourhood of one or two of 
the first packs of fox-hounds in the kingdom. The present annual in- 
come about £580, subject to curate's salary. The incumbent in 60th 
year." 

" In the immediate neighbourhood of one or two of the 
first packs of fox-hounds in the kingdom." And this is a 
motive — a charm — a lure, to draw clerical bidders ! Do those 
who speculate in public stocks, which they offer for sale, 
understand this business 1 Did they in this case know, that 
those clergymen who want church livings would generally 
be attracted by such a lure as the "best pack of fox- 
hounds ?" If not generally, and if it was not well known, 
would they run the risk of defeating their own object, as 
speculators, by putting it in ] 

In the case of the larger sale of advowsons above quoted, 
no doubt the previous advertisements held forth all the flat- 
tering chances and motives, whatever they might be ; and 
the buyers examined and paid fees to the physicians of the 
respective incumbents, as to the probability how long they 
would live, &c. All this is morally certain. 

" Lord Mountcashel stated, in the House of Lords, that he knew 
an archdeacon in Ireland who kept one of the best packs of fox-hounds 
in the country. Another clergyman, not seven miles distant from the 
former, had also a pack of fox-hounds, with which he regularly hunted ; 
and he knew of a clergyman who, after his duties in the church had 
been performed, used to meet his brother huntsmen at the communion- 
table on Sunday, and arrange with them where the hounds were to 
start for next day." 

In the course of one month, I observed the following pub- 
lic notices in the London journals, in the usual style of re- 
porting public amusements, or after the manner of a court 
circular : — First, of a dramatic fete at the Bath Theatre, with 
dancing through the night, and on the list of names of the 
persons present were those of twelve clergymen. The next 
was an animated account of a public ball at Windsor, where 
the " iced champaign was flying about like water, and con- 
tributed to the friskiness of the light fantastic toe ;" where 



260 INJUSTICE TOWARDS DISSENTERS. 

" quadrilling, waltzing, and gallopading continued till 3 
o'clock, and much fun at a later hour," with the names of 
eleven clergymen among the rest. Another begins thus : 
" The Rev. Arthur Mathews gave a grand ball at the Swan 
Hotel, in the town of Ross, &c, at which the following 
clergymen were present :" Then follows the list of their 
names, in number nine — among which were four high digni- 
taries, one belonging to the king's household. 
What do these notices prove I 

" I want you to speak at my grave," said a dying woman 
in London last spring to her dissenting pastor, but imme- 
diately recollecting that no dissenting clergyman would be 
admitted to a church burying-ground for the burial of the 
dead, she added, lifting her hand, expressive of her regret, 
" But, no, you cannot." She turned her head, burst into 
tears, and soon expired. 

Sometimes the stranger in London and in England may 
witness, as he passes a churchyard, the remarkable scene 
of a clergyman standing without the paling in the street 
or highway, performing funeral obsequies by stealth, and 
in evasion of the law, over one of his own people, whose 
friends are assembled around the grave within. It is the 
dissenting minister, who is not permitted to enter that ground 
for this purpose, and who, as a Christian pastor, has com- 
plied with the urgent solicitations of surviving friends of the 
deceased, to perform this office in these humiliating cir- 
cumstances. 

Dissenting clergymen cannot celebrate marriage; they 
are prohibited performing funeral rites over their own dead 
in the churchyard, notwithstanding they and their people 
are taxed for all the expenses of that ground. Dissent- 
ers must pay the rector a special, and no trifling fee, for 
a place to lay their dead ; another for the privilege of set- 
ting up a monument; another to the curate for reading the 
burial-service ; and how many more I do not know. They 
are excluded from all the privileges of the universities, ex- 
cept that by long and hard fighting they have now a uni- 
versity of their own in London. Besides building and main- 
taining their own chapels, and supporting their own min- 
isters, they are forced to do their part towards all the ex- 
penses of the establishment. There is no respect or deli- 
cacy shown towards dissenting clergymen, in exempting 
them from the common burdens of the established church ; 
but, as in the case I have noticed, they are often visited with 
special imposts from the very fact that they are dissenting 
ministers. Even the best of the established clergy, who 
might be expected to sympathize with their dissenting breth- 
ren on account of the many disadvantages they labour un- 
der, have so long enjoyed their high and prescriptive prerog- 
atives, as apparently not to imagine that there is any obli- 



AN INDELICATE APPLICATION. 261 

gation or propriety in dispensing with them in any matter 
or degree towards dissenting ministers. 

" Look here !" said a dissenting clergyman of London to 
me one morning, as I sat at breakfast with him, having bro- 
ken the seal of a letter, at that moment brought in by the 

postman: "read that." It was from the Rev. Mr. , 

rector of , and son of the Bishop of , soliciting a 

subscription towards building a relief chapel, in connexion 
with the parish church ! Where was delicacy of feeling in 
this case ] Besides all the pecuniary disadvantages which 
the dissenting minister laboured under in the metropolis, on 
account of the bearings of the established church upon his 
interests ; besides paying church rates and all other parish 
expenses, under the jurisdiction of the rector of , with- 
out complaint ; and besides making large sacrifices of his in- 
come towards the liquidation of a heavy debt on his own 
chapel, he receives a letter from the rector of the parish in 
which he resides, soliciting a special and extraordinary sub- 
scription towards the building of a new church in the parish ! 
This, no doubt, was all very innocent — that is, as much so 
as a want of reflection, and a proper sense of delicacy, could 

make it. Mr. probably did not think it his duty to 

recognise this dissenting clergyman as a brother minister, 
much less to consider the sacrifices he was doomed to make 
as a dissenter — but only to call upon him to do his duty as a 
parishioner. It is a striking illustration of that high ground 
which clergymen, and other members of the establishment, 
are accustomed to assume and assert, in relation to dissent- 
ers, as if ail right were theirs, and nobody else had any 
right. They offer insult to injury, even when they do not 
intend it. It is a natural result of the system — overbearing, 
oppressive, and irritating. 



London, March 5, 1832. — Yesterday morning (Sabbath) I 
went to hear one of the clergymen of the establishment. 
He preached from 1 John, iii., 8, and he came home upon us 
in such a style, and in so many forms of application, that 
for myself I was at one time forced to weep. And I am 
quite sure that I was only one of some hundreds, out of a 
congregation of more than two thousand, in the same 
predicament. He who makes us weep in such circum- 
stances, under the pungency or touching pathos of religious 
truth, does us good. The soul, thus softened, is cast into a 
susceptibility, for the time being, of the most felicitous im- 
pressions ; and if we are not made better permanently, it 
must be our own fault. I love to weep with a weeping 
congregation, in the house of God. This social and soul- 
subduing influence of religion melts down the feelings of a 



262 A REDEEMING FEATURE. 

community into a common crucible. For the moment 
the people are all one. They sympathize with their pastor, 
with one another, and with the truth drawn forth, in such 
glowing colours and melting accents, from the word of God. 
They are bound together by stronger ties, and feel that " it 
is good to be there." In all ages, and all the world over, 
be it known, the great secret of the Christian pulpit's influ- 
ence and power is to touch the heart; and that minister i 
of Christ who does this shall never want hearers. The 
Christian world have more knowledge than feeling. Feel- 
ing is what they want, and they love to have it. They will 
follow him who so imbodies and charges the elementary 
truths of Christianity by his diction and manner, as to rouse 
up those sympathies within them, which God has ordained 
to be moved by these considerations. People love to be 
moved by Divine truth, even though it makes them uncom- 
fortable for the time being. The very conviction of sin, the 
purpose of repentance, the desire of being and doing better, 
have incorporated with them an inward consciousness of 
moral dignity, mingled with self-debasement — a capability 
of being something that is worth aspiring after. To be 
made to feel — " I will repent — I will be better" — is a sublime 
purpose. And that very sense of sin, which gives vigour 
to this purpose — that very agony of conscience, which fills 
the soul with inquietude, lies side by side with a proportion- 
ate sense of the worth of the soul, of the importance of its 
being, and of its possible destination in a world of heavenly 
joy. I say, then, that men do love to feel under the influ- 
ence of religion — sinners, the worst of sinners, love to feel. 
And I will not consent to be at the trouble of any other 
proof, so long as everybody knows that the most faithful 
and most earnest preachers of the Gospel — if they are 
earnest enough to make people feel — always have the great- 
est congregations. 

The Established Church of England is blessed with a nu- 
merous class of faithful, pungent preachers ; and their 
chapels are always crowded. There is another encoura- 
ging fact : The lectures of the established church, as they 
are called — that is — extra services on Sabbath afternoon 
and evening, and certain week-day evenings, are by courtesy, 
or by the ascendency of popular influence, supplied by the 
nominations and appointment of the vestries. I speak par- 
ticularly of London. And it happens, that the most earnest 
preachers are generally first in request for these supplies, 
even in those churches where the incumbents are most un- 
bending, cold, and chilling formalists— where, in the regular 
services, " Paul supplies a text, and Plato preaches." And 
when Plato, or some other heathen philosopher preaches, 
he has his little class — little — a hearer scattered here and 
there, over a spacious, splendid, and magnificent church. 



IRRELIGION AND VICE IN LONDON. 263 

But when a true disciple of Paul and of Jesus Christ conies 
into the same pulpit in the afternoon or evening, the people 
come— the rich and the poor meet together — the high and 
the low. They come in torrents, till the very thresholds of 
the doors are planted as thick with the feet of worshippers, 
as the closest contact of a crowd will allow. Within is 
to be seen nothing but a sea of heads. And this is the case 
from SabbSth to Sabbath, and on the week-day evening, 
the year round. People crowd and run after faithful 
preaching, as if in all other places (as indeed is too much 
the fact) there were a famine of the word of life. They 
are convinced that these men are sincere — that they are in 
earnest; and they love and feel the truths which they 
preach. I must bear testimony, that there is a goodly and 
increasing number of the clergy of the establishment who 
do preach the Gospel in simplicity, in sincerity, and often 
with very great plainness of speech. 1 have heard them also 
rebuke the vices of the establishment, from its own pulpit, 
in no insignificant terms. They work as if they had some 
sense of their responsibility — as if resolved to exercise a 
redeeming influence over a secularized, and, in this sense, 
corrupt church — " a church dying of her own dignity." 

" Die of dignity." — " What is the value of that dignity," 
says the Rev. Baptist W. Noel, in a letter to the Bishop of 
London on the state of the British metropolis, just published 
— " what is the value of that dignity, which must be maintain- 
ed at a cost so enormous as the ruin of multitudes V This 
gentleman, a clergyman of the establishment in London, 
says, there are 500,000, at least, in that metropolis, of a pop- 
ulation of 1,500,000, who never attend a place of public wor- 
ship, and who live and die unvisited by the redeeming influ- 
ences of Christianity; — 10,000 of whom on the Sabbath are 
devoted to gambling ; 30,000 living by theft and fraud ; 23,000 
annually picked up drunk in the streets; about 100,000 ha- 
bitual gin-drinkers ;* and probably 100,000 more, who have 

; * " The number of public houses and gin-shops in the metropolis is 4073, 
besides 1182 beer-shops, and great numbers of coffee-shops, many of which 
are said to be, at present, worse than the worst public houses, as schools 
of profligacy. Hence we may judge of the numbers infected. Not long 
since, the following numbers were observed to enter two principal shops 
— one in Holborn and the other in Cheapside — in one day : — 

Men. Women. Children. Total. 
Holborn shop, . . . 2880 1855 289 5024 

Cheapside do., . . . 3146 2186 686 6018 

! " The following numbers were also observed to enter fourteen principal 
gin-shops, in one week : — 

Men. Women. Children. Total. 

142,453 108,593 18,391 269,437 

" As it is improbable that the observers recognised individuals who en- 
tered more than once, we will suppose that these were the whole number 
of visits to the shops in that week, and that each person visited once a 



264 PREACHING IN THE STREETS'. 

yielded themselves to systematic and abandoned profligacy. 
This reverend gentleman has come out in a tone of high and 
holy remonstrance against that system of episcopal govern- 
ment in England which prevents the preaching of the Gos- 
pel to the poor, and seeking out the wretched and the lost 
to redeem them from their retreats of vice and crime. He 
proposes and urges that the restraints of episcopal authority, 
operating in so many forms against the erection and support 
of new places of worship, which would otherwise be done 
by voluntary effort, should be removed, as unwarrantable 
and injurious, and an abuse of power; that leave should be 
given to preach the Gospel in unconsecrated places — in any 
building and in the streets — as did Christ and his apostles ; 
as faithful ministers of Christ have done in all ages ; as did ' 
Whitefield and Rowland Hill ; as other denominations are 
now doing with great success ; and he offers himself to the 
bishop of his diocess, as willing to lay aside this improperly- 
assumed and unbecoming dignity of the ministers of Chris- 
tianity, to go forth into the streets — " into the highways 
and hedges" — to compel the wretched wanderer and the 
lost to turn their feet from the way to hell to the path of 
heaven. He proposes this, as the only remedy for the 
wants of the metropolis — for the wants of the country — for 
the wants of the world. He remonstrates ill no equivocal 
terms against so much power lodged in the hands of bishops. 
It will not be understood that Mr. Noel speaks against 
episcopacy, but against the abuse of episcopal authority in 
connexion with the state. 

Whether demonstrations of this kind, which are beginning 
to show themselves in the English church, and which con- 
stitute a hopefully-redeeming feature, will be crushed by au- 
thority, remains to be decided. Some imagine that the 
Church of England may be so reformed, as an establishment 
in connexion with the state, as to answer the design of 
Christianity. For myself I have only to say — that I am not 
simply diffident, but I do not believe it. 

day : then the number of persons visiting those shops would be 269,437 
divided by 7, or 38,491. 

" Thirty-eight thousand four hundred and ninety -one persons — the women 
and children being nearly equal to the men — habitually attend these four- 
teen shops : how many, then, must contribute to the support of the other 
4059 shops with which the metropolis is disgraced ! Either immense mul- 
titudes must be infected with this vice, or else those who are infected 
must be ruinously devoted to its indulgence. It is well known how it 
grows upon those who yield to it ; and some idea of the degree in which 
it prevails in London may be formed from the fact, that above 23,000 per- 
sons are annually taken up by the police for drunkenness alone. The 
numbers taken up by the police for drunkenness in the years 1831, 1832, 
and 1833, were as follows : — 

Males. Females. Total. 

1831 19,748 11,605 31,053 

1832 20,304 12,332 32,636 

1833 18,268 11,612 29,880." 



OXFORD. 265 



OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE. 

When first I passed through Oxford in a coach, without 
stopping except to change horses, I was quite disappointed 
in the appearance of that famous seat of learning. I had 
imagined the various edifices constituting the architectural 
beauties and grandeur of the university to be scattered here 
and there, insulated in the midst of academic groves, deriving 
no less charms from these accidents than from the more sub- 
stantial forms of the edifices themselves ; whereas, in a run 
through one of the principal streets of the city, the eye 
meets only a solid mass of masonry, not unlike any other 
compact town of England, with here and there some more 
imposing features and walls, which seem to indicate anti- 
quity, scaled and crumbling by time, and affording hints that 
these are the buildings of the university. But not "the 
shade of a shadow" of a grove presents itself. All is naked 
walls, bristling occasionally with pinnacles, and now and then 
a tower, a cupola, and a spire, not unworthy of the supposed 
place, and yet not very remarkable. The scaled and appa- 
rently crumbling walls of the university buildings and of the 
churches, owe this appearance (a very ugly feature) to the 
character of the stone of which they are constructed. In 
a century or two after they have been quarried and laid up 
in walls, exposed to the action of the atmosphere, large chips 
begin to scale off from almost the entire surface ; and in 
two or three hundred years, the walls become so ragged 
and so dilapidated as to require to be new faced or rebuilt. 
Hence the difference in the appearance of the colleges, 
some of them having been repaired, while others exhibit all 
the pride of a young antiquity — smoky, ragged, and crum- 
bling. 

All the magnificence of the City of Oxford, consisting 
principally in the university, was founded by Roman Catho- 
lics. Christ Church College, the largest of all, was founded 
toy Cardinal Wolsey with a truly splendid project ; but his 
jfate prevented its entire execution. The great bell weighs 
17,000 lbs., the clapper 342 lbs. The dining hall is 115 
feet long, 40 broad, and 50 in height, the roof supported after 
the maimer of Westminster Hall, the walls hung with scores 
of the finest portraits of the most remarkable characters in 
English history, and is altogether a most magnificent room. 
It has the reputation of being the best refectory in the king- 
dom — a singular praise for a college of literary men. The 
library of this college is one of the grandest and most im- 
posing models of architecture, containing a large and the 
choicest collection of paintings. 
M 23 



266 OXFORD. 

A college is composed of one or two principal quadran- 
gles, enclosing open courts ; some have gardens attached, 
surrounded by high and impassable walls, richly set with 
trees and shrubbery, and adorned in the highest perfection. 
They make enchanting promenades. Every college, with 
its gardens, is as much a prison, when the gates are closed, 
as a penitentiary. The buildings are not lofty, being ordi- 
narily limited to two and three stories. Towers and temples 
are numerous, and the pinnacles innumerable. In some po- 
sitions of the large quadrangle of All Souls are to be enjoy- 
ed the finest possible views of the university — of temples, 
towers, pinnacles, and church steeples, and among them the 
dome of Radcliff Library. The town and all the world are 
excluded from the view, and nothing presents itself but these 
varying and countless features of the perfect and grand of 
architectural device. 

The colleges, in number 19, and 5 halls, were founded re- 
spectively as follows : — University College, in 872, by Alfred 
the Great ; Baliol in 1263—1268 ; Merton in 1264 ; Exeter, 
1314; Oriel, 1326; Queen's, 1340 ; New College, 1386 ; Lin- 
coln, 1427; All Souls, 1437; Magdalen, 1456; Brazen Nose, 
1509; Corpus Christi, 1516; Christ Church, 1525; Trinity, 
1554; St. John's, 1557; Jesus, 1571 ; Wadham, 1613 : Pem- 
broke, 1624; Worcester, 1714; St. Mary Hall, 1239; Magdalen 
Hall, 1487 ; New Inn Hall, 1360 ; St. Alban Hall, 1230 ; St. 
Edmund Hall, 1269. These institutions, 24 in number, con- 
stitute the University of Oxford. The above dates do not 
all of them indicate the precise periods of the first estab- 
lishments of these schools, but are the earliest commonly 
specified in their history. 

The Radcliff Library is properly a temple on a magnifi- 
cent scale, and from the promenade around the base of its 
dome is one of the finest panoramas in the world, compre- 
hending the entire of Oxford, with all its colleges and every 
prominent feature under the eye ; and beyond the city a vast 
and beautiful country in every direction. 

The Bodleian Library, though large, containing 400,000 
volumes and 70,000 manuscripts, is yet more remarkable for 
its richness and rarities, and is sufficiently notorious for its 
invaluable stores. 

Magdalen College is most remarkable for its incompa- 
rable tower ; for its chapel, as recently renewed in a style 
of most exquisite perfection ; for a painting of Christ bear- 
ing his cross ; and for the extent of its gardens and pleasure- 
grounds, among which is Addison's Walk. 

To have any tolerable notion of Oxford University, either 
in its external features, or in its internal economy as a so- 
ciety of students and of the learned, requires leisure, and 
opportunity of intimate and close observation. 

The members on the books of Oxford University for 1835 



CAMBRIDGE. 267 

are 5,251 ; but considerably less than half of this number 
are usually resident there. 

The population of Oxford City is 23,000. The university 
is quite too renowned to require any notice of its great- 
ness from me. 

Eight miles from Oxford, towards Birmingham, are Blen- 
heim Park and Palace, bestowed upon the Duke of Marl- 
borough, the Wellington of Queen Anne's reign, for his mili- 
tary achievements on the continent against the French, — ta- 
king its name in honour of the battle of Blenheim, on the 
Danube. The present duke is in disgrace", makes no so- 
ciety with those of his own rank or with the world, buries 
himself in his botanical garden, has suffered the park to run 
to waste, and would have sold the pictures of the palace, 
if his son and heir had not stepped in his way by an in- 
junction from chancery. The palace and the vast estate 
appertaining are a proud monument of royal munificence, 
bestowed in reward of services done to the country by the 
great captain of the beginning of the eighteenth century. 
It was once a royal hunting-park, and the grounds are still 
exceedingly romantic. The collection of paintings at Blen- 
heim are among the richest treasures of the kind in England. 
The library and chapel of this palace are uncommonly inter- 
esting of their kind. 

CAMBRIDGE. 

Joe Walton is the coachman, or driver, as we say in 
America, of the Star Coach between London and Cambridge, 
54 miles, which distance to and fro, making 108 miles, Joe 
drives every day in the year except the Sabbath. I once 
saw a notice in the Times, that Joe had completed his last 
312 days without failure of having performed his daily jour- 
ney, making in all for the year, 33,969 miles, having rested 
on the Sabbath. I myself performed this journey with Joe, 
that is, I went down to Cambridge one day in the afternoon, 
and returned in the morning a few days afterward. I know 
not how many years Joe Walton has performed this task 
of travelling 108 miles every day except the Sabbath. I 
was not aware that he was such a proidigous traveller when 
I happened to be a passenger in his coach. But certainly 
I never travelled more expeditiously or more pleasantly. 
He generally runs through 54 miles in five hours ; and from 
that to five and a half. The country for the most part is 
level, and the road is fine as possible. We buzz along, not 
stopping more than two or three minutes to change horses, 
and sometimes not more than one minute. 

As I was dining with a friend of mine, of the medical pro- 
fession, accomplished, I may say, in a very high degree, 
and with not less of instinctive discernment than professional 
skill, I mentioned Joe W T alton's extraordinary travelling the 
M2 



268 OLD JOE WALTON. 

year out and in, and from year to year, never failing to 
make his daily journey from Cambridge to London and back 
again, the Sabbath excepted. 

" It is because he rests upon the Sabbath," said Mr. — 
" No man or beast could ever perform such service inde- 
pendent of the rest of that day. And that he can do as long 
as he can do any thing, and be none the worse for it." 

" That is worth marking," I said, " especially as coming 
from you." 

" Ay, and I suppose you will put it in a book when you 
get home to America. 

" ' A chiel's amang us taking notes, 
And 'faith he'll prent it.' 

Whatever use, however, you may make of it, it is an un- 
doubted truth : No man or brute could last in such service 
without the rest of the Sabbath. The Sabbath for man is an 
ordinance of nature, as well as of Revelation — or an ordi- 
nance adapted to nature. We cannot do without it — or that 
which is tantamount." 

I did indeed think this worth marking, and therefore I re- 
cord it. It is an extract from the conversation of a man 
whose opinion is worthy of great respect. And it is of the 
more value, first, because he did not say it as a religionist ; 
and next, because it was not forced from him, but suggested 
by the story. The case of Joe Walton was before us. It 
was remarkable. How could he travel 108 miles a day, and 
continue it from year to year ? He could not, except for 
the rest of the Sabbath. With this interval of repose, the 
service, being reasonable, might be performed in perpetuity. 
Nay, it is not in perpetuity. The rest of the seventh day 
breaks up the order, and prevents the immature wasting and 
decay of powers, worked for such a portion of time to the 
extent of their ability. 

Joe Walton's task is not to be estimated by a simple con- 
sideration of his sitting upon the coachman's box, holding 
the reins, and carrying the whip for ten or eleven hours a 
day. He has a responsibility, which he feels, and which 
weighs upon him : the lives of his passengers, amounting 
in all perhaps, and on an average, to 24 individuals a day : 
their comfort and pleasure, their luggage and parcels, be- 
sides verbal messages or errands, in great number and vari- 
ety, committed to his charge at Cambridge, picked up on 
the route, stowed away in his brain, to be discharged at Lon- 
don and replaced by others, not less numerous or various, 
demanding his attention on his way back, and at the end of 
his journey. He has to please and to serve all the world, 
that is, all sorts of people, in all sorts of things. Joe Wal- 
ton's daily task, therefore, is by no means trifling. And yet 
he works it out, apparently without fatigue, by resting on the 
Sabbath. 






JOHN GILPIN. 269 

The road to Cambridge is the route of John Gilpin, when 
he went farther than he intended : — 

" To-morrow is our wedding-day, 
And we will then repair 
Unto the bell at Edmonton, 
All in a chaise and pair." 

The " Bell,''' or sign of the Bell at Edmonton, is an inn. At 
this day, as we pass the house — I suppose it is the same — 
we find an addition, or change of the sign, as well as the 
name, and it is called " The John Gilpin." The sign is 
historical or descriptive. As to the truth of the history, 
that matter must rest entirely on the credit of the amiable 
and conscientious poet. But as you pass you see Gilpin 
depicted there, as described, all on the wing : — 

" The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
Away went hat and wig." 

" The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 
Up flew the windows all." 

" At Edmonton his loving wife 
From the balcony espied," &c. 

And there is the whole picture to this day: His wife 
standing in "the balcony" beckoning him to stop; many 
heads thrust out many windows to see ; the dogs around, 
and geese fluttering to get out of the way; the donkeys, 
with their carts and drivers, standing still with amazement ; 
the turnpike open to give him passage ; and Gilpin himself, 
with his hat in the wind some rods behind him, his hair go- 
ing after his wig and scarlet cloak, which are also in the 
rear ; the bottles dangling high and low, and pounding the 
ribs of his horse ; while he, with most imploring looks, in 
spite of all his wishes to stop, and of all the help of the mob 
he has raised, still goes on, "because his horse would go." 
I would not vouch for every feature here drawn, whether it 
be a little more or a little less, than what is now to be seen 
at the sign of John Gilpin at Edmonton, as I drove by it 
myself, going and coming, under the auspices of old Joe 
Walton, at a speed scarcely less than that of Gilpin, think- 
ing of him all the while, and making many anxious inquiries 
about him. 

When one has been at Oxford, there is nothing at Cam- 
bridge that can attract his attention except King's College 
Chapel, and that certainly is sufficiently remarkable. There 
is nothing like it, nor of its kind equal to it, in Great Britain. 
There may be a thousand other things in the architecture 
of Europe that would in many respects be more command- 
ing. But when a thing is perfect, what can we have more 1 
When no one can say there is something that ought not to 
23* 



270 

be there, or something wanting, human art seems to have 
made its highest attainment. 

The academic shades and fine walks of Cambridge are 
perhaps more abundant than those of Oxford. Excepting 
the gardens of the colleges, which are walled in, and are 
necessarily very contracted, and which are not commonly 
open to the public, the walks of Oxford are not so tastefully 
arranged, nor so well kept, nor so chaste and inviting in 
their aspects, as those of Cambridge. The sluggish and 
lazy Cam seems to have participated in the lassitude to 
which the overhanging shades, the close-sheared lawns, and 
Arcadian walks invite, and to have stayed his current to re- 
pose in the scene. Certainly he does not go fast enough to 
dissipate the vapours ; he only raises and holds them sus- 
pended all around. " When I first saw this river," said 
Robert Hall, " as I passed over King's College bridge, I 
could not help exclaiming — Why, the stream is standing 

still to see people drown themselves ! Shocking place 

for the spirits, sir. It is the very focus of suicide , 

The Don is a river, sir ; and so is the Severn a river ; but 
not even a poet would so designate the Cam, unless by an 
obvious figure he termed it the sleeping river. I say of my 
Cambridge friends, when I witness their contentedness in 
such a country, 'Herein is the faith and patience of the 
saints.' The place where Bacon, and Barrow, and New- 
ton studied, and where Jeremy Taylor was born, cannot 
but be very interesting ; but does it not strike you as very 
insipid, sir 1 ?" 

King's College Chapel, however, is a redeeming feature 
of Cambridge. Externally or internally, this building may 
be just as large as any one chooses to imagine it. It is of 
no use to have its dimensions ; indeed, perhaps one had a 
great deal better be without them ; and then, while survey- 
ing it from without, he may conceive it of vast magnitude, 
and enjoy, at least by an illusion, the properties and rela- 
tions of the parts of such an edifice, on an extended and 
magnificent scale. Or while he stands, looking down the 
inward perspective, he may imagine that to be infinite, for 
such in truth it seems to be, and one may easily be deceived. 

The length of the chapel is in fact 310 feet; its breadth 
78 ; and the height of the wall 90. This is obviously not 
a great building. It combines simplicity, beauty, and gran- 
deur, so harmoniously, that one cannot tell which to ad- 
mire most. It has no tower. The remarkable external 
features are the frequent buttresses, so strongly built to 
brace the wall and support the roof ; the four turrets, one at 
each angle ; and the line of pinnacles, running from end to 
end and over the roof. Within, the painted windows are 
remarkable, as exhibiting the whole evangelical and apos- 
tolic history. The internal perspective, iroxa almost any 



271 

position, is unrivalled for the perfect unity and satisfaction 
of the effect. There is no wonder, nor scarcely admiration, 
unless it be, that the effect of such pure satisfaction could 
be produced, without mingling the complex emotions ordi- 
narily excited by architectural designs. 

But the stone roof of this building is altogether its most 
remarkable feature. It is said of Sir Christopher Wren, 
that he used to visit Cambridge once a year merely to look 
at this piece of work, and that he should have said — " Show 
me where to place the first stone, and I will build such an- 
other." The roof is supported by a series of double arches, 
concentric to the buttresses, one arch passing through the 
whole, yet all mutually dependant on each other, and each 
contributing to support that weight of stone, which is laid 
almost flat from wall to wall. The stones, however, are 
thin, some say two inches, others from four to six inches 
thick, thus contributing to the lightness of this immense 
arch, which is so near to being flat that it can scarcely be 
.called an arch. It can hardly be supposed that these stones 
are generally thinner than from four to six inches. In 
walking over the surface of this roof, the shapes and rela- 
tions of every stone composing those arches— which, being 
concentric, together make one arch 310 feet by 78 — can be 
as easily and as exactly traced as the flagstones of a street 
pavement. Architects and masons of the present time are 
confounded at the sight, and confess their ignorance of the 
rule or rules by which this framework of masonry was set 
up. It is not exposed to the weather, but is protected by 
an ordinary roof thrown over the whole, with a sufficient 
elevation to admit persons to walk erect on the stone roof, 
sufficient light being thrown in to answer all the purposes 
of the minutest examination. The interior face of this arch 
is curiously wrought out of the stone, in Gothic tracery, to 
correspond with the general design, and for the purpose of 
effect on the beholder from below. The entire edifice is 
pronounced to bear the marks of the point of perfection and 
decline in Gothic architecture. It was begun in the former 
part of the fifteenth, and finished in the sixteenth century. 

Cambridge is the second of the two great — " famous" — 
Universities of England — though not quite willing to concede 
pre-eminence to its sister on the Isis. 

Why not say more about Cambridge and Oxford 1 Because 
I dare not touch so great a theme-— unless I might have leave 
to write a book. 



272 KIRKSTALL ABBEY. 



RUINS OF ANCIENT ABBEYS. 

Kirkstall — Bolton — and Fountain's. 

In approaching Leeds from London, within a distance of 
two and a half miles, the stranger's eye, if he looks on his 
left, will be arrested by an apparent heap of ruins, lying in 
the bosom of a beautiful vale through which himself is pass- 
ing, on the bank of the river Ayre, all shrouded in a grove 
of forest elms, showing here and there, as if a spot of naked 
wall, peeping through the mantling ivy, and seeming to de- 
clare that something deep and solemn lies beneath. As he 
lifts his eye, his doubts will all be resolved by the half of a 
massive tower, peering above the tops of the trees, and ready 
to crumble and fall with the other half, which had gone 
before it. And as he rides along, new shapes of this extend- 
ed mass of ancient ruin are continually forming and rising 
before him : — now some deep recess opens under a larger 
or a smaller arch — now a high, imperfect wall, with a win- 
dow or two opening on the hills or sky beyond — now a 
range of windows — now the great eastern aspect, looking 
bold, challenging respect, and seeming, by its shifting forms, 
to assert vitality, and belie the record of its desolation. 

Approach this pile, and the stranger's interest increases, as 
he traces what must have been the abodes of menials, what 
the magazines of provisions, what the laboratory of the 
epicure — the numerous cells — the chapter-house, or place 
of secret and awful conclave — the great court, and chamber 
succeeding chamber, each partitioned from each by the most 
massive work of stone — elms, centuries old, planted and 
growing up in, the midst of these apartments, spreading their 
arms over the broken walls, and meeting each other in every 
direction, so as to form a perfect grove — and the ivy running 
up in every form, covering and burying here and there the 
parts of this ancient pile, as the swarm of bees covers the 
limb or the tree on which they first alight, after they have 
gone forth in pursuit of a new place of habitation. 

Let the stranger enter the holy place, walk among the 
weeds between the great outer wall and the long range of 
clustered columns, under the lofty and groined arches, which 
still afford a partial shelter — and there he may hear the ear- 
nest chattering of the magpie, the twitter of the swallow, 
the plaint of the sparrow, and the petulance of the wren ; 
there he may look up and see the vigorous, wild shrubbery 
of the plain and hills, the rose, and many a flower, flourish- 
ing and blooming in all their freshness, in the windows, in 
the walls, and even on the highest parts of the tower. 



KIRKSTALL ABBEY. 273 

There he may wander up hill and down hill, in the midst of 
the sanctuary, where was the altar of God, wetting himself 
thoroughly from the grass and bushes, as he passes along, 
brushing off the fresh rain, and bracing himself with care, 
lest he slide and fall among the fallen ruins. 

Where are the hands that built these walls, and where the 
spirits that worshipped here 1 

" Methin'ks I hear the sound of time long past 
Still murmuring o'er me, in the lofty void 
Of those dark arches— like the lingering voices 
Of those who long within their graves have slept." 

Who, in wandering here, would not feel that he has com- 
munion with the dead 1 

" I do love these ancient ruins ; 
We never tread upon them, but we set 
Our foot upon some reverend history. 
And, questionless, here in the open court, 
Which now lies naked to the injuries 
Of stormy weather, some men he interr'd, 
Who loved the church so well, and gave so largely to it, 
They thought it should have canopied their bones 
Till doomsday. But all things have their end. 
Churches and cities, which have diseases, like men, 
Must have like death that we have." 

There are stone coffins, making parts of the solid masonry 
of the chapter of this ancient institution, where the walls 
are in good preservation ; and these receptacles of the dead 
have been violated, from mere curiosity, and the bones sto- 
len, one by one, till not a single relic remains. 

Kirkstall Abbey was built early in the twelfth century, 
under the auspices of Henri de Lacy, Baron of Pontefract, 
and, for aught that appears, was sustained so long as popery 
nourished in the empire. It is now an interesting and ven- 
erable ruin. 

To show how some things, and some of what things have 
been done at this place, I give a few extracts of letters from 
abbots of this institution. From a letter under the follow- 
ing style — " Brother Hugh, called Abbot of Kirkstall, to his 
beloved in Christ, the convent of the same house, health 
and blessing in the bond of peace," and written in the 13th 
century, the following are extracts : — " Because the king 
was not pleased to interfere with the debt due to Tockles, 
the Jew, notwithstanding we had many intercessors with 
him, yet, by the grace of God, obtained through the media- 
tion of your prayers, and by our own understanding, we, re- 
flecting, that if this debt remained undischarged, it would be 
productive of great inconvenience, hit at length upon a rem- 
edy which is likely to be effected." 

Then the reverend abbot goes on to specify this device, 
which perhaps is more to the credit of his cunning than of 
his virtue. He concludes his wily and careful epistle with 
M 3 



274 BOLTON PRIORY. 

this injunction: — "It will not be prudent to show these let- 
ters to any one. But until you have all safe, keep your own 
counsel secret from out of the bosom of the chapter." 

Also the abbot writes in the same letter : — " Send me 
some money, however you come by it — even though it be 
taken from the sacred oblations. Farewell, my beloved, 
peace be with you. Amen. 

" From the Castle Reginald, on the morrew of St. Mar- 
tin, 1287." 

The following document is exceedingly curious, not to say 
that it is wellnigh being the revelation of a secret : — 

" To all to whom these presents shall come, Brother Robert, Abbot 
of the Monastery of the blessed Mary, at Kirkstall, health and faith in 
the following : — 

" Though by the institutions of our order the admission of women is 
prohibited, under heavy penalties, within the precincts of Cistercian 
Abbeys, we nevertheless, being desirous of the salvation of souls, 
which undoubtedly will be obtained, as well by women as men, who 
on certain days of the year happen to visit the church of the said Mon- 
astery of Kirkstall ; and which visits, moreover, are clearly allowed in 
some indulgences granted by Pope Boniface the Ninth, we hereby tol- 
erate, pro tempore, on the above-mentioned days, the admission of wo- 
men to the said church, solely provided notwithstanding, that such fe- 
males be not introduced into any other apartment within the confines of 
the said monastery, neither by the abbots nor by any of the monks, un- 
der the penalties awarded by the aforesaid ordinance, which penalties 
we by these presents decree, and without remission enforce, as well 
against the abbot as against the monks of the aforesaid monastery, if 
they shall be found to transgress what is permitted there. 

" Given at our Monastery of Fountaines, A. D. 1401." 

BOLTON PRIORY. 

"Are you not going to Bolton Priory 1" said my host at 
Leeds, to whom I shall certainly ever be obliged for much 
kindness. 

"Where is it 1 ? — and what is it"?" 

" It is a thing you ought to see, now you are so near. 
Suppose we contrive to go to-morrow 1 It is only 23 miles 
from Leeds, up Wharfdale (Vale of the river Wharf). We 
can go and return in the same day if your engagements make 
it necessary." 

So we took a coach and set off. The first thing worthy of 
remark was a view from the Otley Cheven, as they call it — 
one of the most charming landscapes seen from the hill Che- 
ven, over the village of Otley, two miles from Leeds. Here 
is the entire bosom of the Vale of the Wharf, stretching out 
under the eye for many miles in extent, up and down and 
across — all under a state of high cultivation — variegated by 
two large estates, remote from each other, and the village 
of Otley half way between them. A gentleman's estate in 



ILKLEY WELLS. 275 

England differs from the surrounding country that is farmed 
out, by presenting some several hundred acres, according 
to its size, under shapes the most irregular and undefined 
that is possible. Somewhere in the midst of the groves the 
spectator, if he stands on elevated ground, may see the man- 
sion, or the tops of it, or some imposing front ; and the spa- 
cious grounds will be checkered by fields, woods, groves, 
clumps of trees, single shades, and long marginal ranges of 
the thick and mingled forest. Scattered here and there the 
flocks and herds will be seen, grazing in quiet, or rumina- 
ting on the banks of the streams and under the shades. A 
view of this kind, in a wide-stretched landscape, is a very 
great relief, as distinguished from the smaller patches, en- 
closed by the frequent and well-defined hedges, and most 
economically farmed by the tenants of the numerous cot- 
tages, scattered over the face of the plain. Two of these 
large estates, together with the beautiful village of Otley, lie 
upon the bosom of the plain, ten miles by five in extent, cul- 
tivated like a garden, spreading themselves out under the 
view, and rising in the distance till defined by the elevated, 
mountainous margins of the moors. There, too, is the 
Wharf, stealing its serpentine course, occasionally hiding 
its bosom under the trees, and running where it lists through 
all the vale below. What added to the enchanting beauties 
of this scene was, that the swift and loose clouds, hasten- 
ing on the current of a brisk wind, threw down before us a 
perpetual and rapidly-changing light and shade. 

Next came llkley, a watering-place, 16 miles from Leeds, 
i\\ the same vale, a little, old, and ragged village — but of con- 
siderable note, on account of the wells, or springs, most 
rare for their purity and coolness, and for some medicinal 
qualities. Here were to be found many genteel people, 
crowding the low and thatched cottages, and submitting to 
all sorts of romantic inconveniences for their health ! All 
the donkeys in the valley round about were put in requisition 
for the invalid ladies and children to ride up to the wells and 
back again. A donkey is a patient and queer animal, though 
sometimes vicious — a little larger than a sheep — and a man 
riding upon him may help him along, and guide him as he 
would a velocipede, by touching his toes to the ground. In 
other words, the donkey is the jackass — an animal not taxa- 
ble, and therefore frequent — the commonest beast of burden 
in England. A man upon a donkey is always to me a ridic- 
ulous sight. ; because I cannot help thinking that it is more 
suitable the man should carry the beast, than that the beast 
should carry him — the man being so much bigger. 

There is a remarkable story current at Ukley among the 
vulgar, concerning two rocks, botli of large dimensions, but 
one much smaller than the other, jutting from the brow of 
the hill at a distance above the wells — called the Cow and 



276 BOLTON PRIORY. 

Calf— and looking as much like these animals as do the ce- 
lestial constellations like those brutes after which they are 
called. It is gravely affirmed, and the vulgar believe it, that 
at the dawn of every morning, when this cow and this calf 
hear the first crowing of the cock, they move in company 
from their position, come down to the wells, drink, and re- 
turn. Hence the cow and calf are immortal. 

As we pass up the Vale of the Wharf, all the scenery, 
near and remote, gradually becomes more and more pic- 
turesque. These soft landscapes, at the mellow season 
of summer, lying among and upon so many hills, larger 
and smaller, partly wild and partly cultivated, everywhere 
bounded by the distant and bald mountain profile, and at 
every successive moment changing features as the passen- 
ger is rolled along ; the brisk wind bending every grove and 
tree, and turning up their foliage, making the whole region 
move in wave succeeding wave ; the gentleman's mansion, 
the poor man's cottage, the busy making of hay, and all the 
rest, which cannot be named, are reasonably enough to in- 
terest and delight those who happen to be in an agreeable 
mood. 

Still the scenery becomes more and more bewitching as 
the traveller advances. He looks back, he looks forward, 
he looks upon either side, and upon the hills, regretting only 
that he cannot look all ways all the time. 

All at once and unexpectedly the carriage stops, and a 
man presents himself with a string of keys, to be conduc- 
tor. It is quite unnecessary to ask any questions. We 
have only to follow him. Besides, to be too curious might 
dissolve the charm. Ask not — where you are ? — Ask not — 
if you have got there ] But follow on. 

Here is an ancient, massive, high, and long-stretching wall, 
which has stood for centuries, concealing every thing be- 
yond as you approach it. As you enter, and pass through 
the broken gateway, do it slowly and most solemnly, taking 
in the vision beyond gradually. For your whole breathing 
system will chance to suffer a sudden and painful hiatus — 
not because you stand between Niagara's cataract and the 
rock, which it hides from vulgar eyes — not because you 
meet with the rush of the tempest, or any disturbance of 
the physical elements around you — but for the very stillness, 
the perfect Sabbath aspect of the beauteous and majestic 
scene, which opens gradually on the eye as you advance 
under this rude and broken hole in the wall. It must not be 
described. It would be rash and profane to try it. But as 
you drink it in, and breathe it in, and stop, and gaze, and won- 
der, and are ready to exclaim — What is this 1 And where 
are we 1 — a few steps farther introduce you to the majestic, 
most eloquent, and well-kept ruins of Bolton Priory, on the 
bank of the Wharf, directly opposite a lofty cliff, down which 



BOLTON PRIORY. 277 

plunges a small, but noisy and foaming cataract, of more 
than a hundred feet. This ruin is in a state of the best pres- 
ervation. The walls are nearly all perfect, and every win- 
dow appears in its original form. It is Gothic of the purest 
and chastest order — built in 1120 — or rather begun then. 
The nave is now a church, and in use. An unfinished tow- 
er, half raised, was put to it in 1520 — which, being open to 
the weather, wears the marks of decay. 

But the Priory is a small consideration in this enchanted 
ground. Here you have just entered the lower margin of 
a large estate of the Duke of Devonshire, running up the 
Wharf for several miles, stretching out over the hills, and far 
away on either side — and all kept as is proper for such wild 
scenery. Having turned from the Priory, in some half dozen 
rods we were lost under the cliffs on the shore of the river 
(brook), and began to penetrate the higher regions of this 
romantic world. A way is carefully dug, rising and falling 
over the rocks, and every footstep of the passenger made 
safe. But nothing else is touched except what is neces- 
sary for this purpose. By-and-by we rose and passed over a 
beautiful table of land, where cattle were grazing, and then 
plunged into the thicket again. Next we came to a hand- 
some bridge across the Wharf, for the private purposes of 
the estate. Then leaving a carriage-road upon the lower 
bank, we followed a dug way for donkeys and foot-passen- 
gers, cut out of the precipitous sides of the mountain, and 
occasionally looking down sublimely over the crags into the 
deep chasm, and on the rushing waters below. At last we 
came to the Stridd, as it is called — where the river is com- 
pressed, like the Connecticut at Bellows Falls, and rushes 
down between the rocks, so straitened, that a man can 
jump across from one shore to the other. I was about to 
make the experiment, but stopping to hear the story of a man 
who fell in and was drowned in consequence of the same 
attempt, I began to calculate the chances, grew wise, and 
desisted. 

We ascended the river about five miles, till r coming to the 
ruins of an ancient tower, we crossed and came down the 
other side by a similar path, dug out of the hill-sides, and 
often presenting most enchanting views of the river above 
and below, of the sides of the opposite hills, and of moun- 
tain-tops beyond. At last we came to the " Valley of Deso- 
lation," and ascended it, rising and rising, overlooking the 
tops of the trees and the precipitous cliffs of the rock, into 
the dark waters of a small tributary to the Wharf, which 
tumbled down its rude channel below. We had now walked, 
since we left the Priory, not much less than ten miles. My 
friend being ahead, and myself beginning to tire, he left me 
out of sight. I sat down, wearied with too much of a good 
thing ; and writing upon a card, which 1 laid in the path — 
24 



278 fountain's abbey. 

Tired and gone back — I turned my face down the valley. 
The reason of the name of this valley is — that the light- 
ning strikes here so often as to scath a great many of the 
trees, and give the forest the aspect of desolation. 

We returned at night, arriving at Leeds at 12 o'clock, hav- 
ing passed Kirkstall Abbey under all the witchery of the 
light of the full moon at that still and solemn hour. 

The Rev. John Foster, the essayist, as I was informed, 
spent a whole night among the ruins of Kirkstall — alone by 
the light of the moon. For myself, I think I should have 
expected, in such circumstances, to have communion with 
the spirits of the ancient tenants — the monks and friars — - 
who lie buried there. 

FOUNTAIN'S ABBEY. 

What is it in antiquity which so irresistibly commands 
our veneration 1 Is it the simple quality and fact of anti- 
quity ? Is it because the human mind is so constituted as 
most to respect that which is remote — on the principle that 
" distance lends enchantment to the view V Or is it the ef- 
fect of education — the consent of mankind'? Certain it is, 
that a new and pretty thing, be it ever so perfect a produc- 
tion of art, has nothing of the charm of the old, be it ever 
so ugly. The more decayed the ruins of antiquity, the 
more absolute the dominion of ancient desolations — the 
more eager is the mind to trace the workings of fellow- 
minds, which once were busied there, and to study the 
character and genius of the times in which they flourished. 
The present is overlooked to gaze at and admire the dis- 
tant. These ancient structures are often superlatively ugly 
in their shapes, and always worn into decrepitude by the 
action of time. Though it must be confessed, that the prin- 
cipal and grand features of architecture displayed in these 
specimens are the most perfect beau ideal of the art, so far as 
modern perception can reach. But, that we moderns, while 
attempting to hit off the purer features of the ancient Gothic, 
generally bad enough done at the best, should also incorpo- 
rate all the ugliness, all the deformities, and all the worn-out 
looks, the natural and unavoidable product of time — in other 
words, that we should strive so hard and so unsuccessfully to 
make a new thing old — is ridiculous enough. 

I had visited many interesting ruins of architectural anti- 
quities in England — had walked over parks and pleasure- 
grounds — through mansions and some extensive domains of 
the English nobility ; the solemnity of antiquity had become 
familiar, though by no means irksome ; crumbling ruins 
were jumbled together in my imagination in such groups, 
that I could hardly define the shapes I had seen first, mid- 
dle, and last ; the spirits of the dead, many centuries in their 
graves, seemed to have been disturbed by my invasion of 



fountain's abbey. 279 

their sanctuaries, and haunted me ; the stupendous piles of 
ancient architecture, still in preservation, had passed before 
me ; the mansions of the great seemed remarkable only by 
comparison one with another ; gilded halls, statuary, paint- 
ings, state apartments and state furniture, in all their variety 
of beauty, grandeur, and costliness, had lost the air of nov- 
elty, though not altogether the charm of interest ; the ex- 
quisite combinations of nature and art, to make a little spot 
of earth too good for use, too perfect to be enjoyed, had 
claimed and received my enrapt attentions ; herds of deer 
had become as flocks of sheep ; and the waters of Harrow- 
gate as the waters of Avon or Genesee river (both of which 
are indeed exactly alike) — when I left Harrowgate, a beau- 
tiful and salubrious retreat, to call at Fountain's Abbey — 
not that I had supposed any thing of the kind was yet left 
to awaken in my bosom other and newer feelings of com- 
placency and delight in that which is old ; nor that I had 
imagined that Studley Park remained to throw all other 
parks I had seen into the shade, and make them in compar- 
ison to be despised — but because, being in the neighbour- 
hood, it was suitable to see it. 

I love to be taken by surprise in matters of this kind. 
And therefore, generally, I never read a guide-book to be 
guided. If I have it in my pocket, I am careful not to know 
too much about it. It is often quite as well to take these 
things as they are afloat in common story. I had heard of 
Studley Park, and of Fountain's Abbey. Who has not? 
But nobody ever told me that they were so worthy of at- 
tention. 

I am also exceedingly jealous of walking society, when I 
visit these Elysian fields and these monuments of the rev- 
erend dead. I am afraid they will profane the place. In- 
deed, I never knew it otherwise. And thej-efore, when I can, 
I choose to go alone. I do not object to a professional 
guide, who has been disciplined to propriety and duty, and 
whom I can command either to speak or keep silence, as may 
suit my feelings. I had almost said, a man must be devout 
in such a place. He must at least indulge in sentiments 
which border upon religious awe. He communes with the 
dead. He consults spirits who have been for generations 
and for centuries tenants of the invisible world. He asks 
them what they thought, what they felt, and what were 
their schemes'? He sees before him the proofs of their 
aspirations after immortality. He admires their industry, 
and wonders at their skill. He sees the stamp of their 
minds graven on the imperishable granite, and angel forms 
hewn out of the rock, bearing the scroll of the date of their 
creation. The Babel of their ambition rises high, and holds 
converse with the fleeting clouds from generation to gener- 
ation. And to be disturbed by common chatter in the midst 



280 fountain's abbey. 

of such solemn scenes, and such imposing grandeur, is not 
simply unsentimental, but it is profane — it is shocking. 

In approaching this ancient ruin, the visiter, leaving the 
beautiful town of Ripon behind him, and passing the little 
village of Studley, finds himself plunged into the spacious 
grounds, laid open to the range of deer, sheep, and cattle — 
shaded in all directions with the most stately oak, chestnut, 
beech, and various other forest trees. Having passed the 
mansion and its gardens, standing upon elevated ground on 
the right, he descends to the margin of a small lake, fed by 
a cascade, and open to his eye at the farther extremity ; 
which is in the line of the boundary that separates the 
pleasure-grounds from the pastoral fields. It would be 
mockery to attempt a description of a four miles' walk, af- 
ter passing the lodge at the head of this lake, every rod of 
which presents something to arrest the footstep, to amaze, 
or delight, or enrapture the soul. First we plunge under 
the deep shade of the fir and other evergreens ; next we 
walk by the shorn and impenetrable hedge of the thickly-set 
yew-tree ; next a lofty laurel-bank, sweeping far and rising 
high, and over its top, peering upon us, the banqueting- 
house ; now we look through an aperture, shorn out from 
the thicket, down upon a cluster of green islets, made by ar- 
tificial divisions and serpentine courses of the stream, and 
here and there planted upon them select and elegant speci- 
mens of statuary ; yonder is the temple of filial piety, erect- 
ed in honour of the Grecian daughter who nourished her 
father, doomed to starvation, by the milk of her own breast ; 
and there is the dying gladiator, who, though dying so long, 
is dying still. As we pass along and wend our path, as- 
cending and descending, and crossing the stream over a rus- 
tic bridge — not knowing that we have crossed it — with ever- 
changing prospect peeping now and then through the shorn 
avenues — we have an octagon tower and temple of Fame, 
and various other edifices passing before us — the same things 
presenting themselves again and again from different posi- 
tions, under other aspects. Now we find ourselves in a 
subterranean passage, buried from the light of day, and then 
opening again on a new world. The tops of the trees, in 
several places, are shorn in long ranges, to open on our 
view some distant and beautiful object. By-and-by, coming 
to a Gothic screen, a door is suddenly opened on the brow 
of a lofty eminence — and down through the vale, over a 
lake, a cascade, and meadow lawn, the long looked-for ob- 
ject, the romantic reality of Fountain's Abbey, in its best 
and most perfect form, bursts upon the eye. And there it 
is — and there, in that soft and holy retreat, with its full- 
drawn sides and lofty tower, planted in nature's garden, 
overhung and wrapped in forest-hills — let that awful relic of 
centuries agone rest for ever and aye. 



EARL GREY. 281 

Then, having drunk deeply of the vision from that emi- 
nence, go and take possession — walk up and down its long 
aisles, open to the vault of heaven, but walled still to the 
clouds. Tread upon the tesselated pavement, the very ori- 
ginal ground of the altar, laved by the drenchings of every 
shower. Look up to the lofty and majestic tower, still 
standing in all its parts. Walk round again and again, and 
look up again, till, if possible, you are satisfied. But that 
can hardly be. Survey and note the numerous adjacent 
structures in their various apartments — many of which are 
found in perfection even now — and all of which at this day 
cover two acres of ground. And then consider, that these 
are only so small a fraction of that stupendous pile which 
originally covered twelve acres ! 

" Here awful arches made a noonday night, 
And the dim windows shed a solemn light. 
Now, o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, 
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingling graves, 
Black melancholy sits — and round her throws 
A death-like silence, and a dread repose. 
Her gloomy presence saddens every scene, 
Shades every flower, and darkens every green ; 
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, 
And sheds a browner horror on the woods." 

Fountain's Abbey was built in the 12th century, and is 
reckoned one of the finest and most perfect ruins of the 
kind in England. 



FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN. 

Earl Grey— Lord Brougham— Daniel O'Connell— and Thomas Babbington 
Macauley. 

Earl Grey has closed his political career; but English 
history will support his name, and posterity remember his 
services with everlasting gratitude. It may be true, that 
there have lived greater men; certainly there have been 
more brilliant. In the file of English ministers since the 
Revolution, he has not perhaps a rival in the highest quali- 
ties of a statesman. " If there be one," says a British au- 
thority, "it was probably Lord Somers; but it maybe doubt- 
ed if he was equal to Lord Grey in eloquence and outward 
accomplishments. Walpole had great sagacity and busi- 
ness talent ; but his maxims were gross, and his character 
wanted elevation as well as virtue. Chatham's arrogance 
rendered it impossible for any man possessing self-respect 
to act with him. North was merely a courtier and a man of 
24* 



282 EARL GREY. 

expedients. William Pitt was inoculated with his father's 
arrogance, and like him he was deficient in acquired knowl- 
edge. Fox, with his wonderful gifts of head and heart, al- 
ways leaves an impression on the mind of a person ill qual- 
ified for business ; Liverpool was a poor Sir Plausible ; Cas- 
tlereagh had not one notable quality, except a ruffianly hardi- 
hood ; Canning, with superior talents, had a large dash of the 
charlatan; and Peel's tactical skill and logical dexterity are 
sullied by craftiness, and his political life is not in harmony 
with itself. Of Peel, most assuredly it cannot be said, as of 
Earl Grey, that whatever he utters ' has the dignity of truth 
and the stamp of honour.'" This is rather a short way of 
disposing of these eminent men, it must be confessed ; and 
seems to partake of the spirit of party. 

Lord Grey was born in 1764, and educated at Cambridge. 
In 1785 he was returned to Parliament for his native coun- 
ty, Northumberland. Mr. Pitt was then in the zenith of his 
power, obtained by the sacrifice of early principles on the 
altar of ambition and apostacy. Liberal opinions were then 
a drawback in a young aspirant to a political station. But 
Mr. Grey honourably attached himself to the principles and 
party of Mr. Fox. The terrific evils of the French Revolu- 
tion did not cool his love of liberty, or scare him from his 
confidence in the cause of freedom. He passed the ordeal 
of that severe and memorable trial, and was distinguished 
in the small, but chosen band of patriotic Whigs. He joined 
Mr. Fox in the powerful advocacy of Parliamentary Reform, 
and was a member of the notable association of the " Friends 
of the People." In the spring of 179*2, Mr. Grey was select- 
ed by this society to introduce a motion in the Commons for 
a reform in the representation, by public resolutions signed, 
on the unanimous order of a public meeting, by Mr. Lamb- 
ton, the father of Lord Durham. On the presentation of the 
petition and reform scheme of the society, Mr. Grey, on the 
6th of May, 1793, moved " for the appointment of a commit- 
tee to take the petition into consideration, and report such 
mode and remedy as should appear to them proper." He 
was ably and eloquently seconded by Mr. Erskine, and after 
two days' debate the motion was lost by a majority of 241 — 
forty -one members only supporting it out of 282. 

What a change of public sentiment on this question in 
forty years ; or rather what a different House of Commons ! 
The Reformed House of Commons under Earl Grey's ad- 
ministration stood thus : Reformers, 464 ; Anti-Reformers, 
185; majority, 280! — dividing the doubtful equally. 

On the 26th of May, 1797, Mr. Grey again moved " for 
leave to bring in a bill to reform the representation of the 
people in the House of Commons." On the division there 
appeared— ays, 93; noes, 258; majority, 165. A manifest 
increase in favour of Reform. 



EARL GREY. 283 

On April 25th, 1803, he again moved, " that it be an in- 
struction to the committee to consider his majesty's most 
gracious message respecting the union of Great Britain and 
Ireland, to take into their consideration the most effectual 
means of securing the independence of Parliament.' 1 This 
motion was rejected on a division of 34 to 176. 

In 1806 he joined the Coalition administration, as first 
Lord of the Admiralty, and succeeded, on the death of Mr. 
Fox, to the Secretaryship of Foreign Affairs. In 1807 he 
succeeded to the peerage of his father. His political con- 
sistency and judgment, as a senator, during the administra- 
tions of the Duke of Portland, Lord Sidmouth, Mr. Percival, 
Lord Liverpool, Mr. Canning, Lord Goderich, and the Duke 
of Wellington, have never been questioned by the friends of 
liberty. Throughout the whole of this memorable period 
of British history, Lord Grey was the never-failing advo- 
cate of popular interests. His steady and enlightened sup- 
port of Catholic emancipation — his known refusal of office 
without the concession of that critical question — his oppo- 
sition to the Tory crusades against the liberties of Europe — 
his protests against, the profligate expenditures of Mr. Pitt 
and his successors — his opposition to the fraudulent altera- 
tions in the currency in 1797, and to the subsequent rob- 
beries of both creditors and debtors — greatly distinguished 
him among his political contemporaries. 

So much for the history of that period of Earl Grey's 
life, which, in the providence of God, constituted the school 
of his training for that high destiny which he has fulfilled. 
Those who sympathize with the principles which he so 
early imbibed, and with the plans of improving society, in 
its highest and most influential departments, which have 
employed his powers, and to which he devoted himself 
through a long life, with such rare consistency, and with a 
final triumph so signal and complete, can hardly fail to be 
impressed, if they believe in Providence, that he was raised 
up for the notable work which he, more than any other in- 
dividual, was the instrument of accomplishing. Earl Grey 
has occupied the point of an epoch, not in English history 
only, but in the history of Europe — of the world; and his 
hand established it. Having done his work, he has " de- 
scended, not fallen,"* from the summit of his power, with a 
dignity that sheds lustre on his name, and will secure for 
him the respect not only of the present generation, but of 
all that are to come. 

It does not now require to be said that the British nation 
had recently arrived at a crisis in their history, which de- 
manded no ordinary qualifications and no ordinary powers 
to guide them, under Providence, safely through. Every- 

* These were his own words at tho Edinburgh dinner given in honour 
of him. 



284 EARL GREY. 

body feels it. It was a crisis big with importance, not 
only to themselves, but to all the nations of Europe. There 
was a determination for change pervading the social fabric 
which no power on earth could resist ; and unless the in- 
struments of safe guidance had been prepared by heaven, 
there must have been a wreck — certainly a shock, that 
would have rent society with a violence not soon to be re- 
paired, and which perhaps would have thrown back im- 
provement in the science and the art of governing mankind 
for generations to come. 

The Aristocracy and Democracy of Great Britain had long 
been approaching to the point of collision, and in 1830, when 
William IV. ascended the throne, and called Earl Grey to 
the head of his government, these two antagonist elements 
stood marshalled against each other in fearful array. The 
democracy was mighty and determined ; the aristocracy, 
accustomed to rule, was determined not to be ruled. De- 
mocracy had gained a manifest ascendency, and felt its own 
strength; while its antagonist power discovered that the 
fight was probably for its own existence. Where was the 
individual — for great changes in society require a leader — 
where was the man, in such a crisis, that could check and 
modify the impetuosity of the one party, and yet retain the 
confidence of the other, at the same time conducting them 
both to a safe adjustment of the conflict ? There was man- 
ifestly but one upon the stage that could do it. 

For a long life of consistent devotion to the principles and 
cause of reform, Earl Grey had earned and weJl merited the 
confidence of the popular party. A member of the aristoc- 
racy, proud of its dignities, attached to it in principle as 
well as in affection, resolved to maintain its privileges, and 
being generally known by those of his rank to be of this 
opinion and to have this temper, he had all that respect 
among them which this character, bating his known devo- 
tion to reform, could inspire. With Earl Grey, Reform did 
not aim at encroachment on what he regarded as the rights 
of the aristocracy. By the democracy he was believed to 
be an honest man ; by the aristocracy he was known to be 
honest; and he enjoyed the unqualified respect of both par- 
ties for the sufficiency of his talents to preside over the 
councils of the nation, and to act with dignity as well as 
with decision and energy in a great emergency. He was, 
in fact, the connecting link between these two great and 
conflicting parts of society ; for the period of his adminis- 
tration, society was bound and held together by his influ- 
ence ; and he had the reins of government a sufficient time 
to guide the nation through one of the most eventful periods 
of their history. The crisis passed without convulsion, 
though in May, 1832, they were on the borders of a revo- 
lution ; and that only because Earl Grey felt obliged to re- 



EARL GREY. 285 

tire, on account of the opposition of the House of Lords to 
his great measure. The necessity which the sovereign 
was under, of recommitting the government to his hands, 
proved he was the only man for the time. 

The moral beauty of his retrospective history — the chief 
glory of his career and of his last great achievement — is, 
that his name is untarnished: his reputation is left clear 
and splendid as the sun in a cloudless day. His moral qual- 
ities have all along maintained a symmetry with his intel- 
lectual powers — or rather, perhaps, the latter have been 
under control of the former. Both, doubtless, have acted 
reciprocally on each other, to enlighten, purify, and invig- 
orate the whole man, and to set him up as the prominent 
and leading star of the constellation that surrounded him — 
the sun of the sphere in which he moved, and which was 
governed and blessed by his influence. He has been loved, 
as well as respected, even by his political enemies ; and will 
be so the more, as he recedes from that high place, in which, 
not personally, but politically, he was obnoxious to them. 
No party — no man — can bring to his charge a moral delin- 
quency, or the want of courtesy as an opponent ; however, 
some may think he has erred in judgment of what the times 
have demanded. 

To have been thus honoured by Providence and by society 
— to have filled such a place — to have been so universally 
qualified for the exigencies of such an eventful period — to 
have met them calmly, even with an unruffled temper — to 
have controlled them with dignity, for the attainment of a 
result so desirable and grand, for the political regeneration 
of a community of such unbending character, and of such 
| vast, complicated, and long-established relations — holding a 
steady and firm hand on the symptoms of convulsion for the 
time being, to rebuke and suppress them — and then to de- 
■ scend from power in peace, to enjoy the gratitude and receive 
the blessing of a great nation — is a part of the history of 
one man that rarely finds a parallel. 

Whether Earl Grey has had his coadjutors ; whether he 
could have accomplished this work unaided by other men 
in the various ranks and relations of life ; whether he could 
have done it unsupported by the people, whose cause rested 
on his shoulders ; or without the press, that mighty engine 
of power ; or without the popular branch of the legislature, 
which was the mediate and immediate instrument of his 
power — are not questions to be debated. But yet is it true, 
that he stood alone in the peculiarities of his relations, and 
in the supremacy of his influence ; yet is it true, apparently, 
that no other man in the British nation could have filled his 
place and done his work. He was raised up by Providence 
"for this same purpose." 

It remains to be said, that Earl Grey is, and ever has 



286 LORD BROUGHAM. 

been, not only an honest and determined Reformer, but a 
Conservative in the better sense of the term ; and more of 
a Conservative, probably, than they, who have sustained 
him and been the arm of his strength, are aware. It was 
best — it was necessary that he should be so ; and he will, 
doubtless, die a Conservative. He has accomplished the 
work for which God ordained him ; and that is enough. 
That, neither he nor any one else can ever undo ; for him- 
self, he will never desire it. Farther he could not go ; more 
he could not do ; it would be a miracle. Other, and the re- 
maining needful degrees of Reform, must be done by other 
hands. It was his part to furnish them with the instrument. 

The name of Lord Grey now belongs to history. He 
may live and have influence for ten years to come ; influ- 
ence he must have, while his mind retains its vigour; and 
that influence, it may be expected, he will devote to conserve, 
in the best sense, the valuable institutions of his country, as 
well as to perfect that work of Reform in which he has 
been engaged. It is not unlikely he will try to save some 
things which he cannot save, and which ought not to be 
saved. His views of church and state will incline him that 
way. 

If, indeed, his feelings have been injured and his heart dis- 
gusted, as some have surmised, even with an imaginary dis- 
covery of any unfair doings, relating to himself personally, 
among his late coadjutors and colleagues, it should not be 
matter of surprise if he is found taking a stand against what 
he may deem precipitate measures in the progress of Re- 
form ; nor ought he to be regarded as forfeiting in any de- 
gree the everlasting gratitude of his country for the ser- 
vices he has rendered. Indeed, his whole history and char- 
acter entitle him still to stand up as a Conservative of 
many things, which popular demand will undoubtedly press 
to have dissolved and broken down. It is morally impossi- 
ble that Earl Grey should be a Reformer to that extent 
which the democracy of the empire meditates and will claim. 
Lord Grey has ever been a British aristocrat ; and the Ethi- 
opian cannot change his skin, nor the leopard his spots. 
He has filled that place that was important and indispensa- 
ble ; he has done his work, and purchased to himself the 
name of one of the greatest benefactors of his country ; and 
the nation will not be ungrateful to the man who must ever 
be regarded as the instrument of giving them the Reform 
Bill. 

LORD BROUGHAM. 
The late Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain— Mr. 
Henry Brougham that was, some five years ago — that sin- 
gular genius, that exalted man, who, the longer he lives and 
the more he does, bids fair to be the greater puzzle, as to 



CANNING AND BROUGHAM. 287 

what he will finally come to — was described in comparison 
Df Mr. Secretary Canning, in 1823, as follows: — 

"Though they resembled each other in standing foremost and alone 
n their respective parties, they were in every other respect opposed 
is the zenith and nadir, or as light and darkness. 

; This difference extended even to their personal appearance. Can- 
ling was airy, open, and prepossessing ; Brougham seemed stern, hard, 
ovvering, and almost repulsive. The head of Canning had an air of 
xtreme elegance ; that of Brougham was much the reverse — but still, 
n whatever way it was viewed, it gave a sure indication of the terrible 
)Ower of the inhabitant within. Canning's features were handsome, 
ind his eye, though deeply ensconced under his eyebrows, was full of 
parkle and gayety. The features of Brougham were harsh in the ex- 
reme : while his forehead shot up to a great elevation, his chin was 
ong and square ; his mouth, nose, and eyes seemed huddled together 
n the centre of his face — the eyes absolutely lost amid folds and cor- 
ugations ; and while he sat listening, they seemed to retire inward, or 
o be veiled by a filmy curtain, which not only concealed the appalling 
^lare which shot away from them when he was roused, but rendered 
lis mind and his purpose a sealed book to the keenest scrutiny of man. 
Manning's passions appeared upon the open champaign of his face, drawn 
ip in a ready array, and moved to and fro at every turn of his own 
)ration, and every retort in that of his antagonist ; those of Brougham 
•emained within, as in a citadel which no artillery could batter, and no 
inine blow up ; and even when he was putting forth all the power of 
lis eloquence, when every ear was tingling at what he said, and while 
-he immediate object of his invective was writhing in helpless and inde- 
scribable agony, his visage retained its cold and brassy hue, and he tri- 
jmphed over the passions of other men by seeming to be wholly wiuV 
)ut passion himself. The whole form of Canning was rounded, and 
smooth, and graceful ; that of Brougham angular, long, and awkward. 
When Canning rose to speak, he elevated his countenance, and seemed 
:o look round for the applause of those about him, as an object dear to 
lis feelings ; while Brougham stood coiled and concentrated, reckless 
ff all but the power that was within himself. From Canning there was 
3xpected the glitter of wit and the flow of spirit, something showy and 
slegant ; Brougham stood up as a being whose powers and intentions 
were all a mystery — whose aim and effect no living man could divine. 
Jfou bent forward to catch the first sentence of the one, and felt human 
jature elevated in the specimen before you ; you crouched and shrunk 
aack from the other, and dreams of ruin and annihilation darted across 
four mind. The one seemed to dwell among men, to join in their 
oys, and to live upon their praise : the other appeared a son of the 
lesert, who had deigned to visit the human race merely to make them 
remble at his strength. 

" The style of their eloquence and the structure of their orations 
vere equally different. Canning chose his words for the sweetness of 
heir sound, and arranged his periods for the melody of their cadence ; 
vhile, with Brougham, the more hard and unmoutliable the better, 
banning arranged his words like one who could play skilfully upon that 
sweetest of all instruments, the human voice ; Brougham proceeded 
ike a master of eve-ry power of reasoning and of the understanding, 
rhe modes and allusions of the one were always quadrabie by the clas- 



288 CANNING AND BROUGHAM. 

sical formula ; those of the other could be squared only by the higher 
analysis of the mind — and they rose, and ran, and pealed, and swelled 
on and on, till a single sentence was often a complete oration within 
itself; but still, so clear was the logic, and so close the connexion, that 
every member carried the weight of all that went before, and opened 
the way for all that was to follow after. The style of Canning was 
like the convex mirror, which scatters every ray of light that falls upon 
it, and shines and sparkles in whatever position it is viewed ; that of 
Brougham was like the concave speculum, scattering no indiscriminate 
radiance, but having its light concentrated into one intense and tremen- 
dous focus. Canning marched forward in a straight and clear track — 
every paragraph was perfect in itself, and every coruscation of wit and 
of genius was brilliant and delightful — it was all felt, and it was all at 
once'; Brougham twined round and round in a spiral, sweeping the 
contents of a vast circumference before him, and uniting and pouring 
them onward to the main point of attack. When he began, one was 
astonished at the wideness and the obliquity of his course ; nor was it 
passible to comprehend how he was to dispose of the vast and varied 
materials which he collected by the way ; but as the curve lessened, 
and the end appeared, it became obvious that all was to be efficient 
there. 

" Such were the rival orators, who sat glancing hostility and defiance 
at each other during the early part of the session of 1823 : — Brougham, 
as if wishing to overthrow the secretary by a sweeping accusation of 
having abandoned all principle for the sake of office ; and the secretary 
ready to parry the charge and to attack in his turn. An opportunity at 
length offered ; and it is more worthy of being recorded, as being the last 
terrible personal attack previous to that change in the measures of the 
cabinet, which, though it had been begun from the moment that Can- 
ning, Robinson, and Huskisson came into office, was not at that time 
perceived, or at least not admitted and appreciated. Upon that occa- 
sion, the oration of Brougham was at the outset disjointed and ragged, 
and apparently without aim or application. He careered over the 
whole annals of the world, and collected every instance in which ge- 
nius had degraded itself at the footstool of power, or in which principle 
had been sacrificed for the vanity or lucre of place ; but still there was 
no allusion to Canning, and no connexion, that ordinary men could dis- 
cover, with the business before the House. When, however, he had 
collected every material which suited his purpose — when the mass had 
become big and black, he bound it about and about with the cords of 
illustration and of argument ; when its union was secure, he swung it 
round and round with the strength of a giant and the rapidity of a 
whirlwind, in order that its impetus and effect might be the more tre- 
mendous ; and while doing this, he ever and anon glared his eye, and 
pointed his finger, to make the aim and the direction sure. Canning 
himself was the first that seemed to be aware where and how terrible 
was to be the collision ; and he kept writhing his body in agony, and 
rolling his eyes in fear, as if anxious to find some shelter from the im- 
pending bolt. The House soon caught the impression, and every man 
in it was glancing his eye fearfully, first towards the orator, and then 
towards the secretary. There was — save the voice of Brougham, 
which growled in that under tone of thunder, which is so fearfully au- 
dible, and of which no speaker of the day was fully master but him- 
self — a silence, as if the angel of retribution had been glaring in the 



LORD BROUGHAM. 289 

facc3 of all parties the scroll of their private sins. A pen, which one 
of the secretaries dropped upon the matting, was heard in the remotest 
parts of the House ; and the visiting members, who often slept in the 
side galleries during the debate, started up as though the final trump 
had been sounding them to give an account of their deeds. The stiff- 
ness of Brougham's figure had vanished ; his features seemed concen- 
trated almost to a point ; he glanced towards every part of the House 
in succession ; and sounding the death knell of the secretary's for- 
bearance and prudence, with both his clinched hands upon the table, 
he hurled at him an accusation more dreadful in its gall, and more tor- 
turing in its effects, than ever has been hurled at mortal man within 
the same walls. The result was instantaneous — was electric : It was 
as when the thunder-cloud descends upon some giant peak — one flash, 
one peal — the sublimity vanished, and all that remained was a small 
pattering of rain. Canning started to his feet, and was able only to 
utter the unguarded words — 'It is false !' — to which followed a dull 
chapter of apologies. From that moment the House became more a 
scene of real business than of airy display and of angry vituperation." 
— European Magazine. 

It is sufficiently evident, that this picture was not drawn 
with the kindest feeling towards the subject of the principal 
portrait. I say principal, for there can hardly be a question 
on which of the two characters the eye and soul of the 
writer were fastened. Canning is a mere accident in the 
story — a beautiful and lovely one indeed — and brought in to 
heighten the contrast ; for " with superior talents he had 
a large dash of the charlatan." Here he is made as much 
handsomer than himself, as the portrait of Brougham is 
more ugly than the original. Canning is set up for effect 
— as a Hght to make the clouds and darkness thrown round 
the soul of Brougham visible — as a medium to cause the 
tempest of passion raging in his adversary to be heard hor- 
rible. Subtract the dark and terrible workings of evil here 
ascribed to Brougham, plant their moving springs in the 
breast of his accuser, and make a trio of himself and the 
two subjects of his pen ; then allow a little for the skilful 
combination and glowing mixture from the ingredients of 
the palette — and the picture will be a very fair one. That it 
displays some of the most masterly strokes ever drawn by 
the hand of man, I need not say. The scene that inspired 
it must have been sublime. 

The following lines might be mistaken for a version of 
the same thing : — 

" All passions of all men ; 

* * * * 

All that was hoped, all that was fear'd by man, 
He toss'd about, as tempest wither'd leaves. 

* * * * 

With terror now he froze the cowering blood, 
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness ; 
Yet would not tremble — would not weep himself; 
But back unto his soul retired, alone, 
N 25 



290 LORD BROUGHAM. 

Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously 
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. 

* * ' * * 

Then smiling, look'd upon the wreck he made." 

But Lord Brougham is not such a man. Even his ene- 
mies (political) give him credit for kindness of nature. I 
am not aware that the common public impression of his 
character accuses him of any vice of heart more than ambi- 
tion ; and the public are very apt to be right fn their judg- 
ment of men who are public property. 

A very high authority in Great Britain, opposed to Lord 
Brougham politically, and never failing to improve its oppor- 
tunities to circumscribe his influence, has rendered no un- 
meaning compliments to his private character. It speaks 
of " the noble and learned lord's circumstances" (pecuniary) 
as being " impaired by a too generous confidence and a bound- 
less liberality ; he has, we believe, amiable dispositions. . . . 

" Again : "We certainly should not be sorry to see 

Lord Brougham a member of the Conservative party. His 
warm-heartedness; his pertinacity in certain fundamental 
principles, though the principles are wrong ; his candour to 
political opponents, where temper does not interfere ; his con- 
tempt of sordid gain ; and his private kindliness of nature, are 
all good Conservative instincts. We should not regret to 
see Lord Brougham a member of a Conservative Cabinet. 
Lord Brougham is a zealot in whatever he undertakes," &c. 
Beyond dispute, Lord Brougham is a prodigy. He may 
be, and doubtless is, ambitious. Could a man of such a soul, 
so capacious, so cultivated, so stored with vast and various 
learning, so trained to forensic and parliamentary exercises, 
of such gigantic intellectual stature and restless passion, 
accustomed to rival conflict with a world of aspiring spirits, 
himself aspiring, and unchastened by the hallowed influ- 
ences of religion — be other than ambitious 1 We speak of 
him as a man, of such powers as he has developed, and 
placed in the midst of such exciting circumstances. He 
may, at times, appear inconsistent ; it is possible that in 
some things he has been so ; no ordinary mind can compre- 
hend a man that sees, and says, and does so much. He 
may have seemed occasionally to betray a want of circum- 
spection, from the multiplicity of cares and responsibilities 
which, in the high office he has lately filled, devolved upon 
him, in connexion with all his private relations. He might 
be forgiven if he should sometimes have forgotten one day 
what he had done the day before. 

At any rate, Lord Brougham, by his mere intellectual ex- 
ploits, has drawn upon him the fixed gaze of his country 
and of the civilized world. That nation may well be proud, 
whose nurseries of education, whose literature and science, 
whose inciting history, whose various social, intellectual, 



LORD BROUGHAM. 291 

and moral influences, bearing upon her sons, have made the 
late Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain ; whose field for 
the legitimate use and display of talent has afforded scope 
for the formation of such a character, and opened the way 
for the attainment of such a social eminence. 

For half an age or more now past, Lord Brougham has 
had no contemporary rival in his own country, for force of 
intellect and its products. It is possible, indeed, that there 
may have been some closet dreamer — some scribbler of 
fancies, collected from the regions of imagination, whose 
spirit has been as active, because it was vagrant and wild, 
and could not be tamed. But where is the man, familiar 
and concerned in the common tactics of life, applying his 
powers and his hand to the mighty and complicated ma- 
chinery of human society, forming its shapes and controlling 
its energies, whose influence can be compared to that 
which for a few years past has signalized the history of 
Lord Brougham ! In the intellectual world, Brougham has 
been a prince of as lofty mien, and equally perspicacious, 
all pervading, and energetic, as was Bonaparte in arms. 
His conceptions, his decision, his prompt execution of his 
purpose, and his certain triumph — have been equal. Ac- 
customed to victory, he has been no less confident. All 
his opponents, however noble, however burdened with older 
and hereditary honours, have approached him with defer- 
ence, and quailed before his blighting sarcasm, when he 
has been provoked to deal with them in severity — and have 
always anticipated defeat in whatever shapes of argument 
they have had to encounter him. His resources are infinite, 
and always ready for use ; his apprehension quick as the 
lightning, and his eloquence like the artillery of the storm. 
I confess that I was slow in admitting the claims to ex- 
traordinary greatness commonly awarded to Lord Brough- 
am. I had seen him so often occupied in little things, and 
mincing such a variety of dishes, that I did not readily see 
how all this could consist with great endeavours and great 
achievements But he who is always doing whatever comes 
to hand, and doing it well and thoroughly, is building for 
himself a foundation for mighty effort, when occasion shall 
demand or afford opportunity. Life, we know, is made up 
of little things ; here and there only comes a time and place 
for remarkable deeds ; and he who is prepared by previous 
exercise, furnished and equipped with all his armour on, 
when opportunity presents, may strike his blow with uner- 
ring aim. The industry of Lord Brougham, from his earliest 
history, has been almost unrivalled. No event, no place 
to which he has been called, have ever taken him by sur- 
prise. In his literary efforts, at the Bar, in the House of 
Commons, at the trial of Queen Caroline, and on the Wool- 
sack, whether as moderator or as judge, he has been alike 
N2 



292 LORD BROUGHAM. 

and equally at home. As Speaker of the House of Lords, 
he presided over their deliberations, if not with lordly, arti- 
ficial, and affected dignity, yet with ease and unembarrassed. 
As a judge, he held the bar in perpetual awe, compelled 
them to despatch, rebuked and straightened their tortuosities, 
and often saved them the trouble and the court the infliction 
of a tedious argument, by declaring it unnecessary and an- 
ticipating the result. I have seen one of those gowned, 
wigged, and powdered gentlemen, writhe under the reproof 
of the chancellor for a dishonest management with his 
client, and compelled to sit down in mortification. I have 
now lying before me a print, representing his lordship in 
his chair of judge, leaning forward over his desk, with his 
spectacles in his right hand, the mace lying before him, and 
underneath inscribed characteristically : — " i" see, sir, I see 
— it comes to this .'" And this short sentence is the man 
in that place. 

To look at Lord Brougham's face and head — I have seen 
fifty grandmothers as handsome as he, and equally indicative 
of greatness. Although I do not profess to be a phrenolo- 
gist, I am inclined to think the science is in danger of being 
upset by this ungainly specimen. But however he may 
look like a grandmother, as equally feminine and equally 
wrinkled, especially under his wig, all the world know that 
he has proved himself far more efficient than the ordinary 
character of that respectable class of the community. Un- 
der that prodigious nose, long and thin face, and ugly head, 
lie such treasures of thought, and such elements of reason- 
ing, as are rarely to be found in man. 

It must be confessed that Lord Brougham is somewhat 
wanting in dignity as president of a court or speaker of a 
legislative assembly. He wears uneasy the gown and wig, 
as unnecessary appendages. As Lord Chancellor, he used 
to put on and take off that little oldfashioned three-cornered 
hat in compliance with ceremony — but in a manner plainly 
indicating that he thought it might as well be dispensed 
with. Impetuous in all the movements of his mind, he can- 
not brook unnecessary delays in court, or in the House 
of Lords, or in any business in which he bears a part. He 
will interrupt anybody at any moment, whether in con- 
versation or in argument before a court, or in a parlia- 
mentary speech in the House of Lords, if a sudden impulse 
inclines him to do so ; and he is often so disposed. He is 
not only undignified in these sudden obtrusions, but rude. 
He has even attained the extraordinary advantage to him- 
self of throwing in words, phrases, and extended remarks, 
consentaneously with an argument or speech, without in- 
terrupting it, or demanding a pause in the second party, if 
that party is pleased to go on. 

In the celerity and line of his movements, in the sudden- 



LORD BROUGHAM. 293 

ness of arrest, and in the sharpness of the angle he turns, he 
is not unlike a baboon. He sits down as quick as the ani- 
mal just named, and gets up as quick — hops and assumes 
another position with a very exact imitation of that imitative 
being; wherever he is, and whatever he is doing, he claims 
equally, and equally receives, the attention and admiration 
of all. " I beg your pardon, sir." — " O no, sir." — " Yes, 
sir — yes, sir." — u If you please, sir." — " You are wrong there, 
sir." — " Allow me to correct you, sir," are somewhat the 
style of his interruptions, and all done with an almost in- 
conceivable quickness. Lord Brougham, while listening 
attentively to others, especially in common colloquy, has 
a manner of twitching up the sides of his face, by a violent 
muscular spasm, as if an invisible hand, behind and over his 
head, by an invisible cord inserted in the cheek and grasp- 
ing its principal muscles, should every now and then sud- 
denly and mechanically draw up those parts with great 
force. It is a frequent and painful distortion. 

Lord Brougham's ordinary voice is sharp, clear, and quite 
womanish. I should easily believe he had never been a 
Sheridan in the study of attitudes, &c. And as to his elo- 
cution, I can believe also that it never received its shape by 
the dicta of the art under the tuition of a master — but rather 
by the impulses of his feelings. 

Like all great minds, he selects the plainest language, but 
always pure. His customary tones are silvery; but the 
range of his voice upon the scale of intonation is not- 
withstanding beyond that of almost any other man. He can 
" growl in an under tone of thunder," as well as scream in 
a falsette. His fluency is like an ever-running stream, occa- 
sionally shooting a rapid with majestic and overwhelming 
force ; and now and then, upon a great theme, when his pas- 
sions are stirred within him, he astounds like the tremendous 
cataract of a mighty river, or like the thunder from the light- 
ning-cloud. It is not the manner of the man that one is look- 
ing after or that one admires. It is his thoughts — and the 
thought which is next to come is that which we feel most 
interested in. We always expect something remarkable 
from a mind so remarkable. As striking as are the thoughts 
he has just poured forth, you see him so intent on something 
he is about to utter, and knowing by experience that you 
will not be disappointed, he chains your sympathies, and you 
bend forward with intensity of desire for what is coming, 
and are always sorry when he sits down. 

Lord Brougham appears as if he were constantly addres- 
sing himself to all around him : — " Onward ! Onward ! It is 
a bad economy of life to do only one thing, when there is 
room to do two, and both are worthy of being done." 

The first time I saw Lord Brougham without his gown and 
wig was at the London University, on the occasion of the 
25* 



294 LORD BROUGHAM. 

distribution of prizes to the students, July 12th, 1834 — Sir 
James Abercrombie, M. P., in the chair. It was during the 
momentary and partial dissolution of the ministry, on the 
retirement of Earl Grey. His lordship had that day received 
a message from the king at Windsor, 23 miles, by a coach and 
four, in the brief time of one hour and seven minutes, not very 
far from 18 miles an hour, if that were possible. This, how- 
ever, on the authority of the newspapers. That it had some- 
thing to do with the formation of a government, there could 
be little doubt. Notwithstanding, however, his lordship 
found time to afford his presence on the prize-day of the uni- 
versity, and he entered the academical theatre a short time 
after the honourable chairman had commenced his opening 
address. The chairman was interrupted for a moment by 
the welcome which the company were disposed to bestow 
on the lord chancellor. Having never seen his lordship 
before except in his official garb, I did not recognise him 
till after he had taken his seat, and my eye began to recon- 
noitre his nose, and observe the spasmodic operations of the 
muscles of his cheeks, when lo ! the apparition of Henry 
Brougham sat before me, such as I had often seen in print- 
shops and drawing-rooms, representing the barrister of six 
or ten years ago, and not the lord chancellor of 1834. He 
was in a plain morning dress, with a black cravat, frock coat, 
and Scotch plaid trousers. On the woolsack or in court, 
dignified with his wig and robes, he had always reminded 
me of some of those venerable matrons who can look down 
on children of the third or fourth generation ; but here there 
was nothing but Henry Brougham. It is excusable, perhaps, 
to notice all the appearances of a man who has been so 
prominent in society. He was evidently affected by his re- 
ception. As he took the chair on the right of Mr. Abercrom- 
bie, he supported his head by his left hand, and his left elbow 
by his right, with his legs crossed. He continued so for the 
hour, bating those movements which nervous uneasiness 
creates, exhibiting every now and then his habit of spasmodic 
convulsions of the face. He cannot sit still. His mind is 
too active. He could not sit in a chair, to be looked upo?i, 
without supporting his head by one of his hands. Had he 
been a principal actor there, it would have been different in 
its influence on his feelings. But, conscious that every eye 
was upon him, it was impossible he should not manifest his 
nervous disposition. As president of the House of Lords, 
with all the senators of the British nation before him, he 
was a man, and at home. Before an assembly of women 
and children, the object of their admiring gaze, he becomes 
himself a child — he is filled with feminine weakness. Such 
is human nature. A man, who is the object of universal at- 
tention, cannot appear in public merely to be seen, and when 
he is not enacting his own proper part — that part which has 






LORD BROUGHAM. 295 

made him prominent — without strong emotions. Perhaps 
he felt the more, as at the very moment it was questionable 
in his own mind, as well as in that of the assembly, wheth- 
er to-morrow should invest him with the highest dignity in 
the gift of his sovereign, and install him chief in the realm, 
his royal master only excepted. 

At any rate, deep thoughts of state no doubt occupied his 
mind. 

Lord Brougham is in the prime of his days, and unless it 
shall otherwise fall out, as the consequence of his own in- 
discretions, he is in the youth of his influence. An aristo- 
crat he cannot be, in the popular sense, without becoming a 
political apostate, and losing all respect. He has been too 
long and too thoroughly committed on the popular side. 
His career, before he attained to the dignities of the peerage, 
marks out to him the sole condition of an undying fame. 
If he should halt, or deviate, he is lost for ever. He can 
never be installed in the affections of the ancient nobility ; 
he is doomed to depend on the good-will of the people, and 
on remaining the unflinching and consistent advocate of 
their rights to the last — an advocate of that precise charac- 
ter, of those exact dimensions — or rather of the same shapes 
enlarged, and of the same tone, which characterized his 
doings as a member of the House of Commons. As such, 
it would be impossible to limit his sway over the mind of the 
nation. 

Lord Brougham's resources are inexhaustible, and his pow- 
ers amazing. Bating its darker shades, the portrait I have 
introduced from an unknown hand is nothing overdrawn ; 
and after that, I would not presume to attempt any thing of 
the kind for the expression of my own views. Nothing but 
the substantial realities of character, and the actual demon- 
stration of them, could have furnished materials and endited 
the form and terms of such a record. And such powers, 
naught diminished, but increased in vigour, by twelve years 
subsequent engagements in the most active duties of public 
life, with a seat in the Parliament of Great Britain, so long 
as they are used to command popular respect, may do what 
they will. There is no antagonist that can stand before 
them. 

At the present moment Lord Brougham, by some myste- 
rious cause, would seem to be in eclipse. May he soon 
break forth again — not to astonish the world, for that can- 
not be — but to enlighten it, and to benefit mankind. If we 
must sing the requiem of such powers at the very moment 
when they ought to be most productive, it will indeed be a 
melancholy dirge. 



18* 



296 



DANIEL O'CONNELL. 

It was a long time after I had been in Great Britain be- 
fore I began to render to Daniel O'Connell that respect 
which the importance of his character and influence justly 
claims. Previously to my visiting that country, I regarded 
him by common rumour as a bold, unprincipled, and reck- 
less demagogue, endured, not because he could not be 
checked or silenced, but rather from his insignificance. I 
had given him nearly the same rank in the Emerald Isle with 
orator Hunt in England ; and so fixed and invincible were 
my feelings of disrespect, that when I first began to hear 
him speak in the House of Commons, I only heard him as a 
blustering spouter, and still classed him with " the member 
for Preston," as Hunt was then called, when referred to in 
his seat, not indeed as a fool so hardy as Hunt, but as 
equally promising to attain commanding eminence. That 
vulgar slang, that scurrility, that blackguardism, that sort of 
wellnigh cut-throat dialect, which originally shocked and 
disgusted me, as reported across the Atlantic from Daniel 
O'Connell's popular harangues in Ireland, constantly rung 
in my ears in every speech he made on the floor of St. Ste- 
phens ; not because it was in the speech, but because I could 
not separate it from the man. So deep and so irradicable 
are first impressions. 

I do not think O'Connell is a man of tears, but rather of 
iron. He is always cool and self-possessed. He likes to 
deal with hammers and edge-tools — to cut and slash, to beat 
and maul. He has a little of the spice of a barbarian in 
him ; but he has been enough in civilized society to know 
how to do it all in an accomplished way, if he thinks it 
worth his pains. 

I wish it to be understood, that while I attach importance 
to the character of Daniel O'Connell, I do not oifer myself 
to vouch for his honesty. That is a point I cannot certify 
to, not because I have any knowledge to the contrary, any 
other than the public allegations of his political enemies ; 
but because I know nothing about it, at least nothing that 
would warrant my sitting in judgment upon him. It ought 
to be remembered, however, that the common abuse of po- 
litical opponents is never to be taken as a verdict against a 
public man's private character. When the temper and 
character of the Irish, and the necessities to which the man 
who attempts to lead them is doomed, are properly under- 
stood, there will be found many apologies for those doings 
and manners of O'Connell, in his public career, wliich have 
been adduced by his enemies, as proofs of his want of moral 
principle. I confess, however, I have never been so well 
satisfied of the purity of his conscience, as of the greatness 



DANIEL O'CONNELL. 297 

of his powers ; and it is to the latter solely that I profess to 
direct attention. 

It has been thought and believed, that a leading politician 
must throw away his conscience. Some moralists have 
nicely concluded, that the very idea of policy, as the means 
of an end, supposes a bad conscience ; for what has an 
honest man to do with policy ? If this be true, it is a very 
sad truth ; it proves the world to be in a sad state. 

To appreciate Daniel O'Connell's character, it must be 
considered that he is an Irishman to the Ml ; an Irishman 
born and bred ; and an Irishman thoroughly leavened with 
the peculiar ingredients of the character. 

The Irish, as is pretty well known, are a people of their 
own order. I confess that their proper character is to me 
a riddle. Their phases are indeed open enough ; but by 
what strange laws of human conduct they show themselves 
in such forms, is not so easy to determine. Who, for ex- 
ample, can divine what strange composition of our nature it 
is that goes to make the " Irish bulls V At one time it 
seems to be stupidity, at another wit ; it is doubtless often 
both ; but I am inclined to think it is more frequently the lat- 
ter than is commonly supposed. Wit seems to be native 
with them ; and they are not always aware when they have 
it or when they show it. Their powers of invention and 
combination of the most unwonted forms of thought, and 
modes of pleasantry or abuse, as may serve their purposes 
— the quickness, pertinence, and edge of their retort, and 
the apparent inexhaustibleness of their resources, are truly 
astonishing. Their hatred is the hatred of murder ; their 
love the kindness and generosity of a better world. 

Daniel O'Connell is a cultivated and accomplished Irish- 
man, notwithstanding appearances to the contrary. I mean, 
that he is such for all the purposes of a political leader. 
Imbibing Irish feeling from his mother's breast; rocked 
into it in his cradle ; nourishing it in his youth ; ever min- 
gling and sympathizing with Irish popular commotions ; bred 
at the bar, where he naturally acquired, not only the tact, 
but the necessary confidence, to meet adversaries of close 
and stern reasonings ; trained throughout the history of his 
life to do battle with the British government for the emanci- 
pation of his country, and nowise disinclined to be in the 
field ; he came into it, not badly schooled for a long and 
strong pull against that mighty power, with the abuses of 
which he had undertaken to grapple. 

I had long judged O'Connell by a fallacious rule — his lan- 
guage — and I had been accustomed to estimate his heart and 
measure his powers by his epithets and dialect — not being 
aware that every thing he said or wrote was written and 
said for Irishmen ; that every speech he made in popular 
assemblies or in Parliament, was made to be appreciated 
N 3 



298 DANIEL O'CONNELL. 

and felt by Irishmen — and by the commonalty of the Irish. 
This consideration, I do not doubt, is the key to that heat, 
that scurrillity, that brow-beating and bearding of oppo- 
nents, and that apparent recklessness, which have so uni- 
formly characterized his public career. He may or may 
not have a better heart. It is certain he is not incapable 
of purifying his language from such defects when it answers 
his purpose. Few men have more the command of lan- 
guage in its best forms; few better understand its meaning 
and its powers ; and no man knows better how to adapt it 
to his purposes. 

In his occasional bold and daring onsets — in his various 
shifts and tacks, he may make mistakes and commit blun- 
ders ; he has often done it ; and what Irishman would not 
— or seem to do so 1 But he jumps up from his fall, shakes 
his garments from the dust of the conflict, and becomes 
wiser by experience. By his rashness he may sometimes 
for a moment seem to have come into collision with over- 
powering assailants, and threatened to fall to rise no more ; 
but somehow he will dodge his way through the thickest 
of their ranks, and soon appear again on the field in more 
equal array. He may have the king and both Houses of 
Parliament against him to-day; and not unlikely he will 
bring them all to vote with him to-morrow ; or else force 
them, out of spite and mere love of opposition to him, to 
vote against their own interests, as did the House of Lords, 
in their rejection of the Irish Tithe Commutation Bill, be- 
cause it came before them as the work of Daniel O'Connell, 
in consequence of an amendment he had forced into it. A 
thousand traps have been set for this man ; snares are at. 
his feet in every step he takes ; but nobody can catch him. 
His text and maxim for himself and for the Irish is — " Don't 
violate the law ;" it being understood that he and they are 
to go as far as they can, in resistance of oppression, within 
this limit. 

Mr. O'Connell is so constantly shooting ahead, and get- 
ting into some new position, that his enemies have not time 
to dwell upon his past misdeeds ; but they are obliged to 
follow him up, and watch his latest movements. By this 
means the public in a measure forget his follies and his 
faults. They are absorbed in what is now going on, and 
expecting the result. The swiftness of his career imparts 
brilliancy and lends attractiveness to his exploits. The 
hero fairly draws his pursuers from the vantage ground they 
stood upon; then outstrips them ; and then confounds them. 

As a debater, Daniel O'Connell is all Irish — except that 
he can be collected and cool when he will, from mere wa- 
riness. He is not chaste, nor modest ; that would not do 
for him. He is an actor, with this difference — that he 
enacts a part of his own in real life. On the floor of the 



299 

House of Commons he is, however, more chastened in his 
manner, because his good sense teaches him to be so. His 
tricks would not be endured in that place. But set him be- 
fore a popular assembly, where there is a sympathy between 
him and his audience, and I know not the man who has 
greater power. His action, his features, his voice, are all 
at command to do any thing he pleases ; and he knows well 
what will strike. He will amuse as much as a monkey ; 
and so much the more, as he has the use of speech. The 
compass of his voice in the range of intonation is amazing ; 
and his power of modulation inimitably effective. Over 
and above what is conveyed by the common articulated 
forms of speech which he employs, and by their grammat- 
ical arrangement and combination, he will suggest a subsid- 
iary and full oration of ideas by the mere management of 
his vocal organs. If I might judge by his power over an 
English popular audience in the City of London, I cannot 
wonder that he should be the prince of orators among the 
Irish, where he is perfectly at home. 

The destiny of this man is yet problematical. There is 
one grand fact in favour of his rising to power and influence, 
which nobody, so far as I know, has yet predicted for him, 
viz., the sympathies of the British nation, as a body, are 
generally concurrent with the substance of his principles of 
reform — not, perhaps, in every item, or in all the modes of 
their development ; but so far as he demands relief for his 
country from all real and known grievances — and these are 
neither few nor small. Certain it is — Daniel O'Connell has 
been gradually and uniformly rising. His late triumph over 
Parliament, in the amendment which he forced into the Irish 
Tithe Commutation Bill, was one of the greatest achieve- 
ments of his life. By his own coup de main, unaided and 
sole, he confounded the ministry, threw the House of Lords 
between the horns of a fatal dilemma, whichever they 
should elect. 

Everybody — the nation, the government, the king, the 
world — are beginning to appreciate the power of Daniel 
O'Connell. By the most discerning it has long been felt. 
Even the king, at the opening of Parliament in 1834, saw 
fit to make him a subject of distinct notice in his speech 
from the throne, and to administer to him no unintelligible 
admonition. 

" This is a dark time," said a friend to me very gravely, 
as I met him in London on the morning of the 8th day of 
May, 1832. As the heavens were overhung by a London 
smoke and fog, I thought he alluded to that. " Rather so," 
said I, " but I hope the sun will be out soon." — " But you 
are not ignorant that Earl Grey is out !" — " Out ? Resigned 1 
do you mean to say?' 1 — " He sent in his resignation to the 
king yesterday, and with him all the ministers." — "And 



300 

what will become of you !" — " The Lord only knows." 
This last reply was not made in the ordinary light and pro- 
fane way, but with all the gravity of anxious solicitude. 
And I confess, that the announcement burst upon me, 
stranger and foreigner as I was, like a voice of thunder. 

On Saturday of the same week, 12th of May, was the 
anniversary of the Anti-Slavery Society, at Exeter Hall — a 
heart-stirring political theme, at such an awful crisis! 
Even then the sky was overhung with a sombre drapery — 
although the predictions were generally believed that Earl 
Grey would be recalled. The Hall was crowded to excess. 
It was a meeting of Britons, called to sympathize with 
slaves, themselves at the moment hanging in doubt whether 
to-morrow's sun would rise upon Britain free or Britain en- 
slaved. It was impossible on such an occasion to avoid 
political allusions — and equally impossible for such allusions 
to be made, without calling forth the most passionate ex- 
pressions of sympathy or abhorrence. 

Lord Suffield, a peer of the realm, opened the meeting 
by a pertinent and eloquent address. In the midst of his 
speech, Daniel O'Connell entered the Hall. It was a curi- 
ous experiment. How should a London audience receive 
an Irish demagogue 1 In ordinary times they would have 
hissed him. At least, they would have allowed him to come 
in and take his seat unnoticed. But now was the moment 
when the cause of freedom was common to all — to the 
slave of the West Indies, to the Briton, and to the tenant 
of the Emerald Isle. O'Connell was sufficiently well known 
as the advocate of freedom for Ireland. And although de- 
nominated the Agitator, he yet stood in a high place, and 
was invested with no contemptible influence. Such was 
the moment, such the occasion, and such the circumstance, 
all sympathizing in their aspirations after freedom, and al- 
together holding their very breath in the suspended fear of 
losing it. It was not a time to say or to feel that Ireland 
had an interest apart from England. " We stand or fall to- 
gether," was the universal sentiment. 

In the midst of Lord Suffield's speech, I heard a feeble 
effort at clapping on the platform near the door, which did 
not seem to be called for by any observation of his lord- 
ship. In a moment it was renewed, with a slight degree 
of increased earnestness. Lord Suffield paused, and looked 
round. At that moment the head of O'Connell was to be 
seen peering above the crowd, like the head of Absalom 
above the children of Israel, and a great bustle and move- 
ment were made to give him access to the front of the plat- 
form. No sooner was he recognised by the assembly, 
than a universal welcome burst from every part of the 
Hall, equally deafening to the ear by the shouts of applause, 
and impressive to the eye by the swinging of arms and hats, 



MR. MACAULEY. 301 

and by the instantaneous rising of the immense assembly 
from their seats. It is very uncommon for a British popular 
audience to rise in token of respect for an individual. Had 
the king himself, in his most popular days, entered such a 
place, he could not have been received with stronger marks 
of esteem and veneration. Had the king entered now, im- 
mediately upon the heels of O'Connell, he would have been 
hissed and pelted. Lord Suffield, a member of the House 
of Lords, was obliged to stop and wait, till this agitator of 
the House of Commons had taken his seat by his side, and 
received from the people a long-continued and most clam- 
orous roar of applause. I question whether any other man 
in the British empire could have entered Exeter Hall at 
such a moment, in presence of the same assembly, and re- 
ceived a welcome so marked and so loud. Such is the 

\ amazing power of circumstances. 

\ I allude to this fact merely to show, that whenever the 
British nation shall feel themselves pressed and oppressed 
fly a bad government of the old type — whenever an awful 
crisis arrives, like that in May, 1832, their sympathies will 
'.hrow them at once into the ranks even of such a man as 
O'Connell, and they will take him in their arms, and carry 
him on their shoulders in the very City of London. If this 
man should by-and-by be found high in the government of 
Great Britain, for the pacification of Ireland, it will not be 
the strangest thing that has happened in the world. 

THOMAS BABBINGTON MACAULEY. 

It was in September, 1831, on the discussion of that 
Reform Bill which was afterward defeated in the House of 
Lords, that I first heard Thomas Babbington Macauley. 

At five o'clock the question came up. The speakers who 
occupied the floor successively till eight, were dull. But 
from eight to one in the morning we had an uninterrupted 
torrent of parliamentary eloquence, rarely equalled in that 
house or any other. Excitement in a British House of 
Commons is a contagion. Let one man get on fire, and he 
sets on fire all about him. Much, to be sure, was expected 
on the last reading of that bill in that body. But one night 
had been exhausted and little heat. Three hours of the 
second had passed away, and all still cool and dull. Spec- 
tators grew restiff, and members scattered away to lounge, 
eat, smoke, and talk in the numerous apartments of that 
huge and ungainly pile of buildings. One would not have 
thought there were so many of them about. But at eight 
o'clock, a little man, of small voice, affected utterance, clip- 
ping his words, and hissing like a serpent, succeeded in 
gaining the floor. On a great question in its early stages, 
when one member sits down, a great many jump up simul- 
taneouslv, claiming to be heard, and I know not by what 
26 



302 MR. MACAULEY. 

rule the chairman decides in favour of one of the many. 
But after a few moments of clamorous calling to order, the 
question gets settled, and the favoured one goes on to 
deliver himself of his premeditated impromptus and extem- 
poraneous elaborations. The little man, as I said, got the 
floor. "Mr. Macauley — Mr. Macauley" — went quick around 
among the spectators, in a low but animated voice, evidently 
showing that he was welcomed. Instantly the house and 
the side galleries began to fill with members — no one could 
tell where they came from — but they had evidently been 
resting in abeyance to the quickest summons. In five 
minutes the whole house were in attendance and seated. 
It was indeed a pretty sight. They were literally wedged 
in — the seats being continuous benches — so that doubtless 
their persons suffered much compression. The house was 
still for the first time in the evening, and each fixed his eye 
upon the little man — Thomas Babbington Macauley. And 
surely I thought them very simple to be so attracted by such 
an unpromising beginning — and utterly perverted in taste to 
be able even to endure such affected, intolerable elocution. 
The thoughts, however, and their combinations, soon began 
to indicate a mind above the common level. The vices of 
elocution I began to overlook, as every sentence he utter- 
ed struck up new light around the mighty theme. That 
which had no interest in the mouths of others, I now began 
to look upon as worthy of some regard. Now a spark, now 
a gleam, and now a stream of light would blaze away. 
"Hear I hear V but soon hushed for the desire to hear. And 
yet, for all the interest of the preparations making for an 
argument of the masterly collection and disposition of prem- 
ises, I could not soon be reconciled to the appearances of 
affectation in his modes of speech, and that intolerable, 
frightful hissing withal. There was a time when I thought 
he would go into spasms, and be turned into that reptile 
whose hissing he played off so exactly, or into some other 
frightful shape. Fortunately, however, these spasmodic 
symptoms gradually wore off, as the fire of argument kin- 
dled up his soul, and the more proper shapes of human 
speech by equal degrees formed upon his tongue and flowed 
from his lips. In fifteen minutes he had wrapped himself in 
the Reform Bill as in a mantle, a^id thrown its brilliant and 
attractive folds over him in the most graceful and befitting 
forms, — and himself stood up, thus invested, challenging and 
receiving universal admiration. I will not dare to quote a 
single sentence — nor give an example of his reasoning. 
The Mirror of parliament will doubtless send that speech 
down to posterity in its own simple and proper form. If the 
world does not accord to it the praise of one of the most 
brilliant specimens of parliamentary eloquence, as well as 
one of the fairest structures of logic, I will consent to be 



Mil. MACAULEY. 303 

called an enthusiast in this instance, and will be slow to give 
my opinion again. It was a perfect triumph : and all felt it 
to be such. Never did Bonaparte gain a field of battle in 
a style more brilliant, or with a suddenness more astounding 
to his enemies. Even the opposition joined in the roar of 
applause, meaning it, doubtless, only for the splendid talents 
of the man. It was impossible not to feel that the bill 
would pass — must pass ; that even the House of Lords could 
not — would not dare to arrest it. I did not measure the 
time. I never thought of it till it was too late. He prob- 
ably spoke about forty-five minutes. But it did not seem 
half that. Besides the frequent interruptions by applause, 
when Mr. Macauley sat down, the house rung for many 
minutes with peal on peal of approbation, as if they could 
never be satisfied. And it is remarkable, that while Mr. 
Macauley was in the midst of his argument, Lord Lynd- 
liurst, in the House of Peers, though of the opposition, and 
ignorant of what was going on in the Commons, incidentally 
paid Mr. Macauley one of the most delicate and generous 
compliments. 

The excitement of the Commons was now up for the 
great question. Mr. Croker (pronounced Croaker), of the 
opposition, next gained the floor. And a croaker he was to 
the ministry — most unmelodious, disagreeable, and vexatious. 
If he did not croak them out of their grand device for saving 
the nation, it was not for want of abilities of the highest 
order. Mr. Croker began — as well he might, as he could 
not help, as was most befitting — in a strain of generous en- 
comium on the talents of the honourable member who had 
just sat down. He then passed to the credit of his talents 
all the effect of his speech on the house — which effect none 
could deny — most ingeniously attempting to detract all 
merit from his argument in support of the bill. Who would 
think, after such a triumph as had just been gained in favour 
of the bill, that very instrument could be picked into pieces, 
reduced to shreds, and scattered to the winds, as worthless 
and contemptible, by a tissue of most ingenious sophistry 
and designed misrepresentation? — Who would think, that 
after every feeling and every passion of the soul, by a full 
conviction of the understanding, had installed that bill firmly 
in the sanctuary, and on the throne of the people's rights, 
as too sacred for the approach of any hand to tear it away — 
it could yet be so invaded and so tortured into deformity, as 
almost to make one doubt whether it retained a remaining 
feature of its awarded perfection] Yet Mr. Croker did so 
mangle, so distort, and so abuse that child of the ministry, 
as to take it in his hand, hold it up to the people of England, 
and ask, with fiendly triumph, — Who will have it 1 — Who 
will adopt it \ — Who will bestow on it his affections i — He 
did so charge it with vicious blood and alarming portent, as 



304 MR. MACAULEY. 

to say, — Who is not ashamed to be the father of it 1 — Or, 
when grown to maturity, and installed in the throne of power 
— who would dare to trust himself to its withering influence 1 
Back, then, and take refuge in that house which has so long 
fed and comforted you, and under that throne which has so 
long protected you. I pretend not to quote. Two long 
hours and a half did Mr. Croker profane this handiwork of 
the ministry, and croak out his ill-omened prophecies of its 
ill-starred destiny. 

But there came another after him who in a word could 
tell where the power of this spoiler lay ; whose wand could 
restore to the creature, thus abused, its proper life, beauty, 
and majesty, by a single touch. It was Mr. Stanley, the 
Secretary of State for Ireland. At one o'clock the bill 
stood forth again in its own comeliness — a thing not to be 
despised — the hope of England. And the House adjourned. 

Mr. Macauley is a man — green of his youth — but ripe, 
fully ripe, in all the qualities of brilliancy and power, as a 
debater. Brougham was his schoolmaster and chief patron. 
The latter seems to have been aware of the promising pow- 
ers of this youth, and took an interest in the direction of his 
education. In a letter of Mr. Brougham to Mr. Macauley's 
father, which by some means has been exposed, and which 
makes one of the secrets of Lord Brougham's history, by 
no means discreditable to himself, it appears that Mr. 
Brougham advised and insisted that forensic and parlia- 
mentary reputation could be purchased only by a most labo- 
rious preparation, and at last the recitation of speeches. 
He confessed that he had attained his own eminence in 
that way, that he owed his reputation before the public to 
such efforts. I do not think, indeed, that Lord Brougham is 
doomed to such severity of toil for the production of his 
later and frequent public speeches. Although I doubt not 
his great ones are greatly conned — such, for instance, as 
his effort on the night of the rejection of the Reform Bill. 
Its principal parts, its coruscations of wit and irony, its cap- 
ital arguments, its stirring and tremendous appeals, and 
not unlikely the genuflexion of the finale, were all contrived 
and framed, fitted in their places, and resolved upon, before 
he entered the House. But such a man as he, with such 
resources ever at his command, of such custom in debate, of 
such endless volubility of tongue, as much at home and as 
careless in the House of Lords as any careless boy in his 
most careless place — such a man may well trust himself to 
the filling up of a speech of five, or even of seven hours 
length. 

But he whose reputation hangs yet doubtful before the 
public, of whom expectation is on tiptoe, a young favourite, 
but not yet planted and grown in the affections, like the ma- 
jestic oak in the earth, must be cautious. He must make 



MR. MACAULEY. 305 

short speeches, and every one he makes must be better than 
the last. He must not trust himself, even with all his ge- 
nius, to what is called the spur of the moment. He may be 
quickened by it — but he must not depend upon it. Such in- 
dubitably was the premeditated, the resolved course of 
Thomas Babbington Macauley, under the advice of his grand 
i tutor, and by the approval of his own good sense. He took 
up his position, and was seen to stand in it, after all, without 
being obliged to make a reply. It would not be safe for him 
to reply. And, fortunately for him, there was no need of it. 
Mr. Macauley was the star of the House of Commons while 
he was there ; and when he shall have made his fortune in 
India, he will probably return to figure again in that place, 
and to hold some high trust in the government of his coun- 
try. 

Take the following specimen as a coup de main of Mr. 
Macauley, in answer to the objection, that Reform, begotten 
and urged in public excitement, must be diseased and un- 
safe : " The arguments of these gentlemen," said Macauley, 
" be they modified how they may out of all their variations, 
could be reduced to this plain and simple dilemma : — When 
the people are noisy, it is unsafe to grant Reform. When 
they are quiet, it is unnecessary. But the time has at last 
come when reformers must legislate fast, because bigots 
would not legislate early, — when reformers are compelled to 
legislate in excitement, because bigots would not do so at a 
more auspicious moment. Bigots would not walk with suf- 
ficient speed, nay, they could not be prevailed upon to move 
at all ; and now the reformers must run for it. By fair 
means or by foul, through Parliament or over Parliament, 
the question of reform must and will be carried." What 
could be more pithy, more energetic, more tremendously 
prophetic, than this 1 — And how must a man's soul swell out 
with greatness, when, standing in such circumstances, and 
agitating such a momentous theme, he knows, and all who 
hear him know, that every word he utters of the past is 
fact ; — and himself knows also, and all know by infallible 
prescience, that what he predicts of the future is just about 
to come to pass : — " through Parliament or over Parliament, 
it must and will be carried." 

Against the Bill, in the House of Commons, Sir Robert 
Peal was the most respectable opponent. Mr. Croker and 
Sir Charles, as usual, made the greatest figure — both clever 
— but it is difficult, all things considered, to respect them 
for any thing else than their acknowledged abilities. Cro- 
ker was strong in his own assumed premises — but always 
unfair. Sir Charles Wetherell is as eccentric as he is learn- 
ed — one would hope not vicious by nature^ — exhibiting new 
phases in argument whenever he shows himself at all — 
{and it is said he made only sixty-two speeches on the pas- 
26* 



306 THE WELSH. 

sage of the Reform Bill through the house), but to the eye, 
alas ! always the same : He wants a pair of suspenders — 
his nurse must have died before he learned to dress himself 
— and his schoolmaster, as one would judge from his man- 
ners, must have been a clown. 

" The Methodists," said Sir Charles one day, as he had 
occasion to allude to them in the case of Lady Hewley's 
charity — " Wesleyan Methodists, I believe they are called, 
are distinguished by holding to the doctrine of election" &c. 
Some one jogged Sir Charles. " yes," he repeated, " the 
doctrine of election." (Laughter.) He was jogged again. 
" Yes, yes," added Sir Charles again, " you are right — the 
doctrine of election." (Great laughter.) Sir Charles was 
then told audibly that he must reverse his position. " Well, 
then," said Sir Charles, " have it which way you please. If 
not elected, they ought to be ; for they are the best people 
among us." 



THE WELSH. 

Welsh Character— Poetry— Preaching— The Martyr dog. 

The Welsh are a very religious people — more so than the 
Scotch, or the people of New-England. There is perhaps 
no other Christian people in the world who manifest so 
much religious susceptibility, or who can, as a body, be 
brought so much under its power. They are about a mill- 
ion of people, spread over a surface of 150 miles by 80, or 
5,200,000 acres, parts of which present some of the finest 
mountain scenery in Great Britain. The Welsh are relics 
of the ancient Britons, who fled to the country which they 
now occupy when Britain was invaded by the Saxons. They 
continued an independent people under their own kings till 
1283, when their last prince, Llewellyn, being vanquished and 
slain, they were united to England under Edward I. The 
oldest son of the king of England — the first was Edward II. 
has always been created Prince of Wales, to satisfy the feel- 
ings of the Welsh of their right in the monarchy, &c, Ed- 
ward II. having been born among them. 

The Welsh, for the most part, speak their own language, 
and cultivate Welsh literature. They are proud of their an- 
tiquity, and think that in this particular they are one of the 
most venerable nations in the world. Their attachment to 
their own language is remarkable ; and I am inclined to the 
opinion which they profess, that it is capable of being em- 
ployed with a power over the feelings and passions, with 



THE WELSH. 307 

which the English language bears no comparison. The ef- 
fects of their poetry and preaching would seem to prove this. 
Their most cultivated men have a disgust for the English, 
compared with their own native tongue, notwithstanding 
they may be as much used to one as the other — more espe- 
cially if they are poetic in their temperament. 

Poetry and religion maybe said to have a home in the af- 
fections of the Welsh, unrivalled elsewhere. 

The " Eeisteddfod," or Sitting op the Bards. 
As among some of the ancient nations, poetry is still cul- 
tivated in Wales as a profession. There are many men of 
a very high order of intellect and of general culture, who de- 
vote themselves exclusively to this art. Welsh poetry is 
especially patronised by the nobility and gentry of the prin- 
cipality, and by the royal family of England. Annually 
there is held an " Eeisteddfod" or Sitting of the Bards, a 
grand literary festival, at which some members of the royal 
family are always present, with a representation of the lit- 
erati of England, and the most cultivated men of the prin- 
cipality. The prizes for the best productions in Welsh po- 
etry are distributed on the occasion ; and the most excellent 
of the bards is publicly crowned by the representative of the 
royal family. Some of the productions are recited by the 
authors, and received with more or less, and often with 
great enthusiasm, according to their merits. Sometimes 
the same piece is read in three or four several languages — 
as, for example, in Welsh, in English, in Greek, and in Latin 
— for the purpose of comparing the beauties and power of 
the different tongues ; and the enthusiasm of the assembly 
always decides in favour of the Welsh. On these occasions 
at least, there is nothing like that. 

The " Cymanfa"— 
Are great religious assemblies, or convocations, held for sev- 
eral days continuously in different parts of the principality, 
in the summer season. On account of the great numbers 
who assemble, they being from 10,000 to 20,000, they are 
obliged of necessity to hold their meetings out of doors. 
They are, I suppose, not unlike the camp-meetings of Amer- 
ica, being generally larger assemblies. I have heard much 
said of the power of the Welsh preachers over these assem- 
blies ; and certainly, from all accounts, it must be very great. 
All the world has heard of the Welsh Jumpers ; but I do not 
speak of them ; they are pretty much over and done, as all 
animal ecstasies of that kind are ordinarily transient. But, 
notwithstanding, the poetic temperament of the Welsh is 
yet exceedingly susceptible of being influenced by religion ; 
the power of their own language, employed upon the most 
sublime and touching of all themes, overcomes them ; and 



308 THE WELSH. 

their preachers have a dominion over their affections which 
is irresistible. I am speaking now, of course, of the ordi- 
nary instrumentality of language, in its power over the mind 
and heart, when the themes are advantageous for effect ; 
and we know very well that with Christians who love reli- 
gion, and with those who have had a Christian education and 
respect religion, there are no themes, properly handled, 
which are calculated to have so much dominion over the 
soul as those of the Evangelical volume. 

The Welsh are a people by themselves ; they are bound 
together by the strong national and sympathetic cords of 
society ; and there is no common bond among them that 
is so strong as that of religion. With the politics of the 
empire, happily, they have little to do ; but in religion all 
are taught. The poison of modern infidelity has hardly 
found its passage into Wales. The people generally believe 
in Christianity, and respect it ; and from their easy, poetic, 
and religious susceptibilities, there is more or less of super- 
stition among them, as might be expected in their compar- 
atively rude and uncultivated condition. 

The common centres of their society are the churches 
and chapels ; but the Cymanfa, or great religious convoca- 
tions, are what they make the most of. These seem to have 
taken the place of " the feasts of the saints" as they used to 
be called in England, being of Roman Catholic origin, and 
which are still observed in many parts of England, in hon- 
our of the particular saints after whom the parish churches 
are called, as, for example, St. John's; St. Mark's; St. 
Nicholas's; &c. &c. I remember once in Yorkshire to 
have observed great crowds of people about the public 
houses on the Sabbath, apparently amusing themselves as 
if it were a holyday. On inquiring the cause, I was told it 
was Saint's Day ; and that it would extend to the third or 
fourth day of the week — at which time the common people 
are accustomed to have great mirth. All Episcopal churches 
in our country, I believe, are called after some of the cal- 
endar saints, but fortunately this particular custom has not 
been transferred here ; and it appears to have greatly de- 
clined in England. 

I was told by a Welsh minister, who is good authority, 
that the Cymanfa of Wales have succeeded to these " Saints' 
Days," or Festivities ; that the people, who had been ac- 
customed for ages to assemble in each parish on the calen- 
dar week appointed for the purpose, for social and merry 
occupations, having generally fallen off from the established 
church, demanded a substitute ; and that the Cymanfa are 
really and truly the things that have taken the place of 
them. The Cymanfa, however, although they are still great 
social occasions, on which the people in the vicinity of the 
place of meeting lay themselves out for the display and ex- 



THE WELSH. 309 

ercise of their hospitality towards their friends who come 
from a distance, are yet strictly and properly religious 
meetings — having been made such by the influence and zeal 
of the Welsh ministers. The ministers, I am told, would 
generally be glad to dispense with them, as they do not 
think them, on the whole, most advantageous to the inter- 
ests of religion ; but there is a kind of social intoxication in 
these large convocations, to which a people, so retired from 
the more stirring scenes of the world, and rarely assem- 
bling in great multitudes, are strongly attached. It is cer- 
tainly to the great credit of the Welsh ministers, and proves 
that the principality has undergone no inconsiderable reli- 
gious reformation, that they have been able to redeem these 
large assemblies of the people from their former corruptions, 
so far as to make them innocent, and perhaps useful. 

The preachers have great power over the people on these 
occasions ; their language is peculiarly favourable for out- 
of-door effort ; their lungs are stentorian, and capable of 
bringing back echoes from the sides of the mountains ; the 
people are animated by the pastoral, or wild, or craggy 
scenery, with which they are surrounded ; the heavens 
over their heads are an emblem of the residence of the God 
whom they worship, and of the final home which they are 
taught to hope for ; they delight to hear the voice of prayer 
ascend from the place where they stand to that throne above 
them, from which nothing but the stars and empyrean blue 
divides ; and when all the voices of such a vast concourse 
are united in their religious anthems, the whole creation 
seems to be praising God. I heard a Welsh minister say, 
that he has known an assembly of this kind apparently so 
transported with the effect of their own singing, as to re- 
peat the last couplet of the last stanza of a hymn for a 
whole half hour, with increasing, and the most perfectly en- 
rapt enthusiasm ! This repetition is more apt to occur when 
the hymn terminates with something like a "hallelujah." 
This would seem like Handel's hallelujah chorus, a strain 
of ecstasy, that is reluctantly brought to a close. Im- 
promptu, extemporaneous feeling is much encouraged and 
indulged in, in the religious assemblies of the Welsh. I 
have listened to accounts of the effects of preaching and of 
devotional exercises on these great occasions, almost in- 
credible. They seem at least to prove, that there is much 
and a quick religious feeling among the Welsh ; and we 
cannot doubt that there is a great deal of genuine religion 
there — a leaven which, we may hope, will ultimately purify 
the mass. 

" If I must give you my opinion," said a Welsh minister 
to an English clergyman, the latter of whom had challenged 
his brother from the principality for his opinion about Eng- 
lish preachers as compared with the Welsh, " although I 



310 SPECIMEN OF A WELSH SERMON. 

had rather be silent in such company, I should think that 
you in England have no good preaching." — " None !" said 
the English clergyman. " None at all," added the stranger 
from Wales. " I know," said the English minister, " that 
you are famous for jumping in Wales ; but that, I suppose, 
is not owing so much to the matter of preaching, as to the 
enthusiasm of the character." — " Indeed," said the stranger, 
" if you had heard and understood such preaching, you would 
jump too." — " And do you not think I could make them 
jump," said the Englishman, " if I were to preach to them 1" 
— " You make them jump" said the Welshman ; "you make 
them jump ! A Welshman would set the world on fire while 
you were lighting a match." — " Pray, give us a specimen," 
said the Englishman. "What, in English? Your poor 
meager language would spoil it. It is not capable of ex- 
pressing the ideas which a Welshman conceives." 

The Welshman, however, after much persuasion, gave 
from memory the following English version of a passage 
from a sermon of the Rev. Christmas Evans : — 

" When our world fell from its first estate, it became one vast prison. 
Its walls were adamant, and unscalable ; its gate was brass, and im- 
pregnable. Within, the people sat in darkness and the shadow of 
death ; without, inflexible justice guarded the brazen gate, brandishing 
the flaming sword of eternal law. Mercy, as she winged her flight 
of love through the worlds of the universe, paused to mark the prison 
aspect of our once paradisiac world. Her eye affected her heart. 
Her heart melted and bled, as the shriek of misery and yell of despair 
rose upon the four winds of heaven. She could not pass by nor pass 
on. She descended before the gate, and requested admittance. Jus- 
tice, waving the flaming sword in awful majesty, exclaimed, — 'No 
one can enter here and live V — and the thunder of his voice outspoke 
the wailings within. 

"Mercy expanded her wings to renew her flight among the un- 
fallen worlds. She reascended into the mid air, but could not pro- 
ceed, because she could not forget the piercing cries from the prison. 
She therefore returned to her native throne in the heaven of heavens. 
It was 'a glorious high throne from everlasting;' and both unshaken 
and untarnished by the fallen fate of man and angels. But, even there, 
she could wot forget the scene she had witnessed and wept over. She 
sat and weighed the claims of all the judicial perfections of Jehovah, 
and all the principles of eternal law ; but, although they arose upon 
her view in all their vastness, she could not forget the prison. She 
redescended with a more rapid and radiant flight, and approached the 
gate with an aspect of equal solicitude and determination ; but again 
she was denied admission. She stood still — her emotion was visible. 
Justice ceased to brandish the sword — there was silence in heaven. 

"' Is there admission on no terms whatever V she asked. 'Yes,' 
said Justice ; ' but only on terms which no finite being can fulfil. 
I demand an atoning death for their eternal life — blood Divine, for 
their ransom.' — 'And I,' said Mercy at once, ' accept the terms.' It 
was asked, 'on what security, and when they would be fulfilled V — 
'Here,' said Mercy, 'is the bond — my word! my oath! and, four 



SPECIMEN OF A WELSH SERMON. 311 

thousand years from this time, demand its payment on Calvary, — for 
I will appear in the incarnate form of the Son of God, and be the 
Lamb slain for the sin of this world !' 

" The bond was accepted without hesitation, and the gate opened 
at once. Mercy entered, leaning on the arm of Justice. She spoke 
kindly to the prisoners, and gave them some hints of her high under- 
taking on their behalf. All were amazed, and many melted, by this 
timely and tender interference ; and, to confirm their hopes, Mercy 
from time to time led the ' captivity' of some ' captive,' that their sal- 
vation might be the pledge and prelude of eventual triumphs. 

" Thus the gathering of the ' first fruits' in the field of redemption 
went on for ages ; and at last, the clock of prophecy struck ' the ful- 
ness of the time.' Then Mercy became incarnate in the person of 
the Son of God, who appeared in the form of a servant, publishing his- 
intention and determination to pay the mighty Bond. And soon the 
awful day of payment arrived ; — then the whole array of the judicial 
attributes of Jehovah took their stand on Calvary, with Justice at their 
head, bearing the Bond of Redemption. Angels and archangels, cher- 
ubim and seraphim, principalities and powers, left their thrones and 
mansions of glory, and bent over the battlements of heaven, gazing, in 
mute amazement and breathless suspense, upon the solemn scene — for 
now the Mediator appeared ' without the gates of Jerusalem,' crowned 
with thorns, and followed by the weeping church. Ashe passed along 
the awful array of the judicial perfections of the Divine character, none 
of them uttered a word of encouragement — none of them glanced a 
look of sympathy to him. 'It was the hour and power of darkness.' 
Above him were all the vials of Divine wrath, and the thunders of the 
eternal law, ready to burst on his devoted head — around him were all 
' the powers of darkness,' on the tiptoe of infernal expectation waiting 
for his failure. But none of these things moved him from the purpose 
or the spirit of redemption. He took the Bond from the hand of Jus- 
tice, and moved on to the cross, ' as a lamb to the slaughter.' He re- 
signed himself to that altar of ignominy. 

"Then Justice unsheathed the flaming sword, and marshalling all 
his terrors, went up to enforce his claims. The rocks rent under his 
tread — the sun shrunk from the glance of his eye. He lifted his right 
hand to the eternal throne, and exclaimed in thunder — ' Fires of heav- 
en ! descend and consume this sacrifice.' The fires of heaven, ani- 
mated with living spirit by the call, answered — 'We come! — we 
come ! — and when we have consumed that victim, we will burn the 
universe !' They burst — blazed — devoured, until the humanity of 
Emmanuel ' gave up the ghost ;' but the moment they touched his 
Divinity, they expired. That moment Justice dropped his flaming 
sword at the foot of the cross ; and the law joined the prophets in 
witnessing to ' the righteousness which is by faith ;' for all had heard 
the dying Redeemer exclaim, in triumph, 'It is finished !' 

"The weeping church heard it ; and, lifting up her head, cried — 'It 
is finished.' The attending angels caught the shout of victory, and 
winged their flight to the eternal throne, singing — ' It is finished.' 
The powers of darkness heard the acclamations of the universe, and 
hurried away from the scene in all the agony of disappointment and 
despair — for the bond was paid, and eternal redemption obtained." 



312 THE MARTYR DOG. 



THE WELSH MARTYR DOG— CILIART. 

At the base of Snowden, the highest mountain of Wales, 
is a stone standing at this day, called Bedd-Gelert, or the 
Grave of Ciliart. There, many centuries ago — for the last 
Welsh king was slain in 1283 — was buried a favourite dog 
of Llewellyn the Great, of which and his end we have the 
following pitiful story : — 

Llewellyn had come to this place, with his wife and fam- 
ily, to spend the hunting season, of which sport he was pas- 
sionately fond. He had among his pack a favourite dog of 
the name Ciliart ; or, as it sounds in English — Gelert. He 
missed him one day in the chase, and was much vexed to 
be obliged to return without his usual success, on account 
of the absence of this dog. His wife had been with him, 
as it was the custom of the time for females to engage in 
such exercises. As he dismounted and entered the door 
of his house, followed by his wife, the first object he met 
was Ciliart, who came wagging his tail, and expressing all 
the welcome characteristic of that faithful and affectionate 
animal. Llewellin would have rebuked him for his absence 
from duty that day, and for the subtraction he had occa- 
sioned from their pleasures ; but his mouth, and head, and 
parts of his body were stained with blood ! " What !" ex- 
claimed Llewellyn, raising his hand, and at the same moment, 
his wife leading the way, they both rushed into the nursery ; 
and, as they saw the floor marked with blood, they hastily 
snatched the curtain from the cradle, and their infant babe 
was gone ! ! The mother cast one glance at the savage ani- 
mal that came following after them, screamed with horror 
as she pointed her finger to the cause, rolled her eyes wild 
and madly to heaven, and fell backwards. The father drew 
his sword, and with one thrust transfixed the monster, which 
fell at his feet, still wagging his tail, and looking duty and 
affection, as if in mockery of the deed he was supposed to 
have done ! He howled out the expression of his own agony, 
moaning piteously, and expired — his eye, even in death, still 
fixed upon his master. 

Llewellyn, in his distraction, upset the cradle, and under- 
neath it safely lay, sleeping, with a smile on its countenance, 
the infant babe ! In another part of the room he found the 
body of a wolf, torn, mangled, and dead ! He turned his eye 
to Ciliart, and he too was dead ! What would he not have 
given to restore him to life ! The instinct of the faithful 
animal had discerned the waylaying and near approach 
of the wolf, and withdrawn himself from following his 
master to the chase ; he had watched the movements of 
his adversary, and found that he had scented human flesh 
in his master's habitation; his sagacity had contrived to 
remove the babe, and to deposite it safely beneath its era- 



THE MARTYR DOG. 313 

die, in anticipation of the coming fight ; he had obtained 
the victory ; and he waited for his master's return, to deliver 
up his charge, and be caressed for his fidelity. 

" It is not true," said a gentleman, who was one of the 
listeners to this story, as it was narrated by a Welshman, — 
" it is not true," he said, as he leaned his elbow on the table, 
supporting his head by his hand, which also covered his eyes. 
" If you subscribe to the doctrine of Leslie's Short Method 
with the Deist," said the Welshman, " you must also admit 
this. For there is the stone — the monument — set over the 
grave of Ciliart to this day ; there is the village, erected on 
the spot, and bearing the name of the dog's grave — Bedd- 
Gelert ; and the same story has come down with these mon- 
uments from generation to generation. The story and the 
monuments are corroboratives and living demonstrations of 
the facts." 

" Well, then," said the gentleman, still leaning on his 
hand and covering his eyes, " the dog has done suffering — 
has he not 1 I am glad that he has no protracted and con- 
scious existence, to remember that he became a martyr to 
his fidelity— that he died for saving the life of his master's 
child. But I seem, even now, to see him wagging his tail, 
moaning, and looking submissive, as he lies weltering in his 
blood, with his eyes fixed upon his master, in the agonies 
of death. I wish I could get rid of the idea." 

I have now lying before me on my table "Jones's Views 
in Wales," and in No. 2 will be found the village of Bedd- 
Gelert, with Snowden's lofty peak rising on the left, and 
merging in the clouds. It is interesting not only as a pro- 
duction of art, exhibiting a captivating group of the magnif- 
icent works of God, but it is especially so as a standing 
verification of the story just narrated. Bedd-Gelert is the 
Welsh-English of Bedd-Ciliart, the Grave of Ciliart— Bedd 
being the Welsh for Grave, and Gelert the English form, or 
enunciation, of Ciliart in Welsh. I used to lodge with a 
friend who is minutely acquainted with the spot by ocular 
inspection, and to whom indeed I am indebted for the first 
narration of the story. He avers it to be of unquestionable 
authenticity. 



BURDENS OF THE ENGLISH. 

The annual sum necessary to be raised by the British gov- 
ernment, to pay the interest of the national debt, and for 
other purposes, is, in round numbers, .£43,000,000. For the 
poor there is raised in England alone, by the parish author- 
ities T d£7, 000,000. For all the purposes of religion in the 
Establishment and among Dissenters, in England, Scotland. 
O 27 



314 TAXATION. — STEINBERG. 

and Ireland, say £10,000,000. Total, £60,000,000, or 
$288,000,000! For the same purposes the United States 
raise annually not more, probably, than about $20,000,000, 
or £4,166,666. The following is rather a lugubrious wail 
over the taxes imposed in England : — 

" Taxes on every thing that enters the mouth, covers the back, oris 
placed under the feet ; — taxes upon every thing that is pleasant to see, 
hear, feel, taste, or smell ; — taxes upon warmth, light, and locomotion ; 
— taxes upon every thing on the earth, in the waters under the earth 
— upon every thing that comes from abroad or is grown at home ; — 
taxes upon the raw material, and upon every value that is added to it 
by the ingenuity and industry of man ; — taxes upon the sauce that 
pampers man's appetite, and on the drug that restores him to health — 
on the ermine that decorates the judge, and on the rope that hangs 
the criminal — on the brass nails of the coffin, and on the ribands of the 
bride — at bed or at board — couchant ou levant — we must pay. The 
schoolboy whips his taxed top ; the beardless youth manages his taxed 
horse, by a taxed bridle, on a taxed road ; and the dying Englishman, 
pouring his medicine, which has paid seven per cent., into a spoon which 
has paid 30 per cent., throws himself back upon his chints bed, which has 
paid 22 per cent., and having made his will, the seals of which are also 
taxed, he expires in the arms of his apothecary, who has paid £100 for 
the privilege of hastening his death. His whole property is then taxed 
from 2 to 10 per cent. And besides the expenses of probate, he pays 
large fees for being buried in the chancel, and his virtues are handed 
down to posterity on taxed marble. After all which he may be gather- 
ed to his fathers to be taxed — no more." 



STEINBERG THE MURDERER AND SUICIDE. 

While walking in Queen-street, Cheapside,I suddenly be- 
thought myself — I will turn and propose to my friend, Mr. 

E , a surgeon, to go with me to witness the scene of 

carnage which had occurred in Southampton-street, Penton- 
ville, the night before. I understood that persons belong- 
ing to the medical and surgical profession would be admit- 
ted, and concluded I might go in under the wing of my friend. 
But who could wish to see such a sight 1 My own first 
thoughts were, that I would never do it, except called by 
duty ; but my second was — it might be instructive, although 
revolting and horrible to every feeling that is worthy of re- 
spect. I called, and in five or ten minutes Mr. E.'s horse 
and cabriolet were at the door, and we drove off. 

"This is a remarkable horse," said Mr. E. "Whenever 
1 have called once at a house, he will not go past it without 
inclining to stop. One would think, that in such a city as 
London, he would forget even a street that he may have 
passed through once, much more a house among so many, 



MURDER AND SUICTDE. 315 

where I may have called with him weeks or months before. 
But he is infallibly certain to recognise every place where he 
has ever been. There is a street we are about to pass, 
leading to Solley Terrace, the former residence of our friend, 

Mr. M . It is now eighteen months — is it not ! since 

Mr. M removed, and I have not been there from that 

time ; but I will engage, when we come to that street, if I 
will give the horse the reins, he will turn down, and stop 
at the very door." 

"Do you see," said Mr. E., as we approached the street, 
the horse being left to himself, — " how he begins to prick 
up his ears, and look that way ? There, he turns, he is in 
the street, as you see, and would stop at No. 14 Solley Ter- 
race ; but this is enough." And we turned about to go on 
our way. 

The brute is faithful to his instinct — he never violates na- 
ture. He often appears amiable to us, and we feel for him 
the affection of attachment. But man, alas ! who can trust 
him ] — He may turn monster; he may enact the fiend. 

As we came to Southampton-street, the crowds of the 
populace were immense. It seemed impossible to get near 
the house, the way was so thoroughly choked. We gave 
our horse to the keeping of a boy, tried to obtain a passage 
to the door, but in vain. What motive could draw and keep 
the people there ? They could not get in ; they had no hope 
of it. They could only stand and gape, and talk ; yet there 
they would be from morning to night, and I suppose, in 
great numbers, from night to morning. The truth was, they 
were constantly changing, one taking the place of another. 
The newspapers had announced to the whole world of the 
metropolis the dreadful deed ; and thousands, or tens of 
thousands, were constantly coming and going to see — what] 
Southampton-street and a crowd. They could see nothing 
more. But man loves tragical scenes — at least he loves to 
sympathize with them. He is curious — he wishes to know 
all about it : he pries into the history of the author of the 
tragedy, and endeavours to find the motives ; he wishes to 
know when and how it was done — at what dread hour of 
the night — by what instrument ? Where did he get it 1 How 
did he use it ] Did he surprise the innocent victims in their 
sleep? Had they any warning] Did they resist? What 
is the appearance of things within? In what position do 
the dead lie 1 Are they on the bed or on the floor 1 — in their 
night-clothes, or how \ For they were not yet removed, but 
all remained exactly in the same condition in which the 
murderer's hand had left them, — and the coroner's jury were 
then in session collecting evidence. 

Not succeeding in our attempts to gain access, my friend 
went to the jury's room, and obtained an order for admit- 
tance. Armed with this power, it became the duty of the 
02 



316 MURDER AND SUICIDE. 

policemen to clear our way, which they endeavoured to do. 
After much difficulty, we succeeded in gaining the door, and 
finally to get in, though at the hazard of rending our gar- 
ments, and of injuring our persons by the immense physical 
force of the mass that tried to get in by virtue of our privi- 
lege. A few succeeded, and pushed in with us. 

We were conducted first to a rear chamber in the second 
floor (in London called the first), where the mother — a 
woman apparently about thirty years of age — lay on the 
floor, with her head nearly dissevered from her body by 
some sharp instrument. By the marks of blood on the bed, 
it was evidently done in that place, and her struggles with 
death had thrown herself out. At her feet lay the body of 
an infant, a few months old, with its head also dissevered, 
so as scarcely to hang on its shoulders. Such was the hor- 
rible scene of that apartment ! 

We then ascended to the room directly above — and there 
lay the ghastly bodies of two little girls, one about twelve 
years old, on the floor, and the other 4 or 5, in the bed — 
both murdered in the same manner as the mother and infant 
below. It was horrible to behold ! 

We then ascended another flight of stairs, and entered a 
front chamber, where lay the body of a little boy, about ten 
years old, with his head also nearly dissevered. He had 
been sleeping in the same apartment with his two sisters, 
but had fled from his monster-father while executing his 
fiendly purpose on his infant daughters. But he was pur- 
sued — he was overtaken, and in his struggles of self-defence 
in warding off the knife, lost one of his fingers, which was 
entirely cut from the hand and lay on the floor, besides ex- 
hibiting other corresponding marks of violence. 

We descended to the basement story, and there lay the 
monster, the author of this scene of death, stretched on his 
back, with arms extended, and the knife in hand, by which, 
in the end, he had nearly severed his own head from his 
body. He was himself in his night-clothes, and so were all 
the victims. Not a human being remained to breathe in 
that house! — All — all were butchered — the mother and four 
children — and the murderer by his own hand! What a 
scene ! 

Was he deranged 1 No. The evidence was abundant 
that it was a cool, deliberate- plan, devised and executed 
without any alienation of mind. 

He had become embarrassed — he was an atheist — he had 
lived a vicious life — had many years before separated from 
his wife, and lived long enough with this woman, unmar- 
ried, to have these children, — and, to free himself and all 
from trouble, believing not in a future being, he had in this 
manner ushered himself and them into eternity ! And this 
is the fruit of that faith which says — " There is no God." 



TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. 317 



TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. 

There is one great vice in English society, not indeed pe- 
culiar to them, but yet strongly marked. It exists under a 
specious name, and at first sight would seem to be an axiom 
in morals, or in the social relations. They express it as 
follows : — " Let every one know and keep his own place." 
But when interpreted by its exemplifications, it may gener- 
ally be taken as meaning, in the mouth of him who uses it, 
something like this : — " Let every one who is below, or un- 
der me, stay there. Let him not presume to aspire." Thus 
every class conspires to keep down those who are below 
them. 

I have frequently talked very frankly with our English 
friends on this subject, some of whom have seemed to yield 
to my reasonings, while others have strongly opposed me. 
My manner of treating the argument has been something as 
follows : — 

" Your theory of society is false ; and on your principles 
it must for ever remain stationary, or nearly so. You know 
very well that God has made every thing for progress — that 
nothing in his creation stands still. Above all, has he con- 
stituted mind in itself, and society in its relations, for ad- 
vancement. Mind at rest is mind paralyzed ; it is an abuse 
of God's work, and it must suffer for it. It is the nature of 
mind to aspire ; if you interpose obstacles to its ascendency, 
or circumscribe the scope of its action by vexatious barriers, 
you disappoint the end of its being. It is creating a prison 
for a spirit by an unnatural and forced arrangement of circum- 
stances. Doubtless there are grades of intellectual and 
moral being ; but to assume that a given grade is ordained 
for the same mind to stand in for ever, is deciding the ques- 
tion in debate, and not very reasonable. 

" And here is the fault of you English — a fault of princi- 
ple as well as of practice. You do not give a chance for 
all minds to advance — to rise ; but you study and take great 
pains to hold them in check ; you rebuke and vex them, if 
they show a disposition to answer the proper end of their 
existence, and of human society ; and you say, they are get- 
ting out of place, and trying to move beyond their sphere. 

" But the fault is your own ; you are inconsistent. You 
have lately made a great mistake in attempting to promote 
general education ; in setting up Sunday and other schools 
for children of the poor ; in economizing the modes of in- 
struction ; in multiplying the means of knowledge, and bring- 
ing them within the reach of all minds. Do you expect, if 
you give them knowledge, that they will be contented to be 
27* 



318 TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. 

degraded 1 Will you show them what is most desirable, and 
what man may possibly attain to, and then cross their path to 
say — No, you shall not have it ; it was not intended for you ? 

" You must undo what you have been doing ; you must 
debar the poor and the common people from the sources of 
knowledge, if you would have them remain where they are. 
If they are cultivated and informed, they will never be con- 
tented or easy till the way is open to all for advancement 
You have indeed done one excellent thing— you have begun 
to educate the poor ; but you do not seem to be prepared for 
the consequences. You are vexed at the natural result of 
the work of your hands — a work undertaken from the best 
of motives. The difficulty is — your theory of society is not 
sufficiently enlarged. You have begun well, but you have 
not looked to the limits of the field upon which you have 
entered. 

" If you will allow me to say so — that is doubtless the 
best state of society where every mind, as it is expanded by 
culture, and looking abroad on the circumstances by which 
it is surrounded, and forward on the prospects open before it, 
sees no insuperable obstacle, placed by unfairness, in the 
way of its advancement in an honourable career, and to any 
station that may lawfully be desired. Will mankind ever 
be contented till such a state of things is brought about 1 I 
would not, I could not respect them if they would ; it is un- 
reasonable to expect that they will. 

" You will pardon me for saying that I think it is a gen- 
eral fault in England — which may easily be accounted for by 
the history of society here — for every class to keep its in- 
feriors in check, in a manner and by means which are not 
the best treatment of human nature. It is an hereditary vice 
of this community, and belongs to nearly all, from the high- 
est ranks to the lowest. Even the lower classes are equally 
jealous of their rights, in relation to those who are below 
them. 

" This is, unfortunately, a method of treatment maintain- 
ed in principle ; and I humbly think it is in principle wrong. 
But it will find its own cure in that course which society 
is now taking, by the instrumentality of your own hands, 
though it will often be inconvenient and vexatious, and 
cause many of you to say — Would that we had kept the 
people ignorant. You ought, however, to be patient under 
all this, and remember that it is an incidental evil in the 
way of the greatest good — to the best state of human society. 
It is one of the sins of fathers visited upon their children ; 
but a meek and quiet bearing of it will be an atonement." 

ANOTHER. 

The English are remarkable for loving the brute creation, 
especially horses and dogs. And there is something very 



TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. 319 

kind and amiable in this disposition, which, except as it is 
carried to excess, ought to be turned to a good account, and 
make people better members of society. The inference 
ought to be thus : He that is kind to a brute, will much 
more be kind to his own species. But the reverse is often 
true. People must love something that breathes, and that 
can requite affection — or something that is serviceable, and 
that ministers to enjoyment. The horse, besides awaken- 
ing our admiration, and by degrees our affection, for his 
noble qualities, is serviceable. He carries us with willing- 
ness and high spirits, and obeys our will. We are cheered 
and thrown into a sort of ecstasy by his easy and proud 
movements, whether we ride upon his back, or are drawn 
in a carriage. We pet him, and he pricks up his ears, smells 
our hand or our garments, and seems to be happy and 
grateful for our attentions. We call him by name ; he looks 
a kind response. We bid him go, and off he springs, obe- 
dient to the various indications of our will. He never fails, 
but always serves us, while we feed him well. We teach 
him many lessons, whether of service or of playfulness, 
and he never forgets them. He knows and understands us 
as well as we do him. We talk to him as to a friend ; and 
he evidently takes his part in the dialogue in his own way. 
He faithfully serves, and never hurts or opposes us. No 
wonder that we should become attached to him. 

But the English have peculiar reasons for loving the 
horse. He is the proud animal that gives dignity, show, and 
ease to the public airings and resorts of their town, and that 
ministers to the pleasures and sports of the country. There 
is no city in the world that makes such a display of horses, 
either in respect to the superiority of their breed, or to their 
number, as London. One can never cease to wonder at 
this exhibition, for nearly half the year, in the western parts 
of the metropolis and in the parks. It is a daily pageant, 
at which the actors themselves, at every renewal of the 
scene, are filled with admiration. One could not doubt that 
they suffer a sort of mental intoxication by gazing at the 
show, as they roll or gallop along in the midst of it, them- 
selves a part. Nor can they forget that it is the noble horse, 
reduced to the most perfect discipline, that contributes so 
essentially to their enjoyment. 

In the country he is equally the minister of their pleasure 
and their sports. I speak of fact — not that sport and pleas- 
ure are most suitable to man, and the most worthy objects 
of his pursuit, merely for the gratification which they offer- 
ed. It is the excessive love which the English have for the 
horse and dog, which I think a fault — a perversion of the 
affections of the heart, which disappoints the noblest ends 
of society and of man's existence. For illustration, I have 
in view three striking facts, which belong to a great class, 



320 TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. 

not perhaps peculiar to the English, but especially charac- 
teristic. 

The cause of this attachment probably lies more in the 
convenience of the horse and the dog, as means of pleasure 
and of sport, than in any thing else ; although there is too 
often another ingredient of a melancholy character, espe- 
cially in the love that is lavished on the dog. Every car- 
riage and every parlour has a dog. Or if he be not found 
in the parlour, he is an indispensable part of domestic so- 
ciety. The lady, especially if she be unmarried or has no 
children, scorns not, but prides herself, in leading her pet by 
a silken string, through all her public promenades. She feels 
for her dog, not less, perhaps more, than the fond mother 
feels for her child. She feeds it — if it is sick, she watches 
with it, even all the night. Not a pain does it feel but she 
feels. Her dog is her companion — her friend ; and when 
she dies, she remembers her dog in her last will and testa- 
ment. 

As I was walking with a friend in a country town about 
40 miles from London, we met a gentleman and lady ac- 
companied by a beautiful spaniel. " They have no child 
but that dog," said my friend as we passed them. " I met the 
gentleman the other day, and asked him how he did 1 ' Mis- 
erable !' said he, with a doleful countenance. ' What is 
the matter, pray V — ' My dog is sick. I sat up with him all 
last night. I did not sleep a wink. I am afraid he will die. 
I am miserable, sir. 5 " 

A lady lately deceased, in Wakefield, Yorkshire, left .£30, 
or $144 a year, for the maintenance of her dog! On the 

death of Lady (I forget her name), in Scotland, 1816, 

six of her horses had pensions assigned them of £45 per 
annum each. Five of them died at the ages of 28, 29, and 
31. The sixth died lately, aged 34, the executors having 
paid for this one alone the sum of £810 ! Suppose the aver- 
age life of the other five was twelve years after the death 
of her ladyship, and the cost of the whole, thus pensioned, 
would be £3,510, or $16,848! If the dog should live 15 
years after his mistress, his maintenance will cost £450, or 
$2,160! 

These are only facts of a numerous class to illustrate the 
affection that is bestowed in Great Britain on dogs and 
horses. At the same time it must be admitted, that kind- 
ness to the brute creation is a virtue, and ought not to be 
rebuked ; yet there is something naturally and unavoidably 
suggested by these facts, that presents a melancholy pic- 
ture of perverted affection. It proves, first, that many — 
and I fear very many— -waste their affections on brutes, be- 
cause they have not virtue enough to love their own species. 
They must love something, and something which at least 
they may imagine requites their loye. A dog is always 



WINDSOR CASTLE. 321 

obsequious and affectionate ; there is no ungrateful return 
from that quarter, no want of patience nor demand for it. 
There are a thousand objects of human kind needing 
benevolence ; and in no countries more than in England and 
Ireland; but they are not amiable — they are viewed with 
disgust — as unworthy. Who can love rags and filth ; es- 
pecially how can a delicate lady love such objects ? Alas ! 
she has no arithmetic in her head, no sentiment in her 
heart, that makes its calculations properly. She knows not 
how to lay up treasure in heaven, by causing the poor to 
rise up and call her blessed — to drop their tears of gratitude 
at her feet ! She knows not Him who " became poor, that 
we, through his poverty, might be made rich." She is an 
idolater of the basest, most disgusting kind. If she were a 
worshipper of the sun or of the moon, there might at least 
be some lofty ingredient in her character — but she worships 
a dog ! 



WINDSOR CASTLE. 

Kenilworth — Warwick — York Minster — Salisbury Steeple. 

The way to Windsor is by the great post-road from Lon- 
don to Bristol, up the general course of the Thames, pass- 
ing Hyde Park, through Kensington, Hammersmith, Brent- 
ford, Hounslow, and some half dozen other considerable 
villages — making a distance of 22 miles. The country about 
London is generally level, and seems to be low. Ascending 
the Thames towards Windsor, a modest hill-outline stretches 
along on the left, a little distance from the river, the ridge 
of which runs by Windsor Castle 2i miles south — the whole 
line of which presents a very agreeable relief to the eye, 
exhibiting alternate forests and cultivated grounds, lifting 
itself perhaps 300 feet above the general level of the sur- 
rounding country. On approaching Windsor, at the distance 
of five or six miles, the battlements and walls of the castle 
begin to show themselves, seeming, from their magnitude 
and extent, to be within a mile or a mile and a half. It is, 
indeed, a truly royal monument of imposing grandeur. 
Perched upon a sharp eminence, just large enough for the 
base of its own everlasting walls, it lifts up its battlements 
and towers in one vast and irregular pile, presenting its 
varied aspects proudly and magnificently to every point of 
approach. All that is lost in looking at the external of the 
palace of St. James, to one who has conceived of nothing 
but the august in thinking of the court of that name, is more 
than restored on approaching Windsor Castle. 
O 3 



322 WINDSOR CASTLE. 

The west, north, and east phases of the castle present 
bold, lofty, and inaccessible fronts. On its south are its sev- 
eral ways of ingress and egress, on an easy inclined plane, 
opening into the town lying at its base — and one of them, 
the royal road, opening into the long avenue, lined on either 
side by two rows of the most ancient and venerable oaks, 
running from the castle gradually down into a vale, and 
again rising till at the distance of two and a half miles it 
strikes the ridge before described, presenting one of the 
grandest perspectives of the kind, and one of the noblest 
avenues in the world. At the extremity of this avenue, on 
the ridge, is perched a colossal equestrian statue of George 
III., on a pedestal forty feet in elevation, constructed rough- 
ly in imitation of a natural rock. 

The extended vale, stretching to the right and left, and 
lying between the castle and the statue of George III., pre- 
sents a most captivating landscape, especially as this vast 
region is cut in twain by the long and majestic line of the 
grand avenue. But the northern prospect from the castle is 
a vision of perfect enchantment — the castle itself being 
skirted to its very base by the interval lands of the Thames. 
There is the river searching out a winding course, as if re- 
luctant to quit the scene of which itself is a principal charm. 
There are the widely-extended and almost boundless inter- 
vals, some defined 'by regular artificial lines, sprinkled with 
trees and copses of wood, and filled with herds and flocks ; 
others undefined by any visible boundaries drawn by the 
hand of man, presenting all conceivable variety of forest- 
shade and open field, of flocks and running brooks — of vil- 
lages, farmhouses, cottages, and the brisk windmill, displayed 
from different points, and whirling about its whitened canvass 
until the utmost boundary, rising before the eye, merges 
in the clouds, or fog, or smoke of an English atmosphere. 
There, too, is the beautiful town of Eton, resting on the 
Thames, divided from Windsor only by a bridge — Eton Col- 
lege — and the college church, an ancient Gothic structure, 
belittling the town and all the college edifices by its own 
comparative magnificence. 

Windsor Castle is divided into two principal wards, upper 
and lower — the former being appropriated as the domicil 
of the royal family, constituting the entire quadrangle, as it 
is called, and made up of almost innumerable apartments, 
greater and smaller, more or less magnificent; some for 
use and some for show. The upper ward rests on the high- 
est grounds, and the space comprehended within the quad- 
rangle I should judge to be some two or three acres, making 
a sort of parade-ground for troops, and for the carriages and 
suites of the king and queen. 

Between the upper and lower wards stands the Keep, or 
Round Tower, the most elevated and the grandest feature 



WINDSOR CASTLE. 323 

of the castle, being, I should judge, 100 feet in diameter, and 
displaying from a smaller tower, resting upon its summit, 
the royal flag, to indicate when the king is at Windsor. In 
the lower ward are many interesting objects, among which 
the most notable are St. George's Chapel, the Mausoleum, 
and Julius Cesar's Tower, containing a peal of eight fine- 
toned and heavy bells, constituting the lower extremity. 
The castle in both wards, especially the upper, has been 
greatly enlarged, parts of it entirely renovated, and the 
whole eminently improved, at immense expense, within the 
last few years — more especially during the reign of George 
IV. The Round Tower has been lifted some 50 feet above 
its former height, the summit of which is now more than 
400 feet above the Thames, which runs at the base of the 
castle. The entire range of the present state apartments 
has been renovated, and to a considerable extent newly- 
furnished. It would require a volume to describe these 
numerous state-rooms, their various and princely furniture, 
and the works of art with which their walls are covered, 
and their niches and angles studded. Every ceiling also 
exhibits some grand historical or fabulous device of the 
painter's art. All the most admirable specimens of the fine 
arts, ancient and modern, connected with English and gen- 
eral history, sacred and profane — portraits, often full length, 
of the different members of the royal families of England, 
from the earliest days, and of the most distinguished of their 
nobility — grand historical groups commemorative of great 
occasions, &c. — together with numerous civic, military, 
naval, and chivalric memorials — may be seen in one and 
another of this long line and labyrinth of magnificent apart- 
ments. 

Passing by the numerous, attractive, and impressive ex- 
hibitions of the arts with which St. George's Chapel 
abounds — such as West's Last Supper, immediately above the 
altar, and the widely-extended Resurrection scene, thrown 
upon the vast window, also over the altar, and designed by 
West — such as the Nativity, and the offerings of the Magi 
to the Holy Child, on either side of the immense central 
window of the nave, designed by the same hand — the in- 
imitable (in these days inimitable) inherent colourings of the 
last-named great window — and very many other specimens, 
as well of statuary as of painting — I have only time to no- 
tice the marble cenotaph to the memory of the Princess 
Charlotte. The artist who devised this monument, Mr. 
Wyatt, was doubtless aware that his task was of no ordi- 
nary character — that unless he could satisfy a nation's tears, 
and equal the freshest wounds of that calamity most fresh, 
he had better attempt nothing. For myself, I was taken by 
surprise when I blundered unexpectedly and alone upon 
that scene. I had never heard of it. Nor should I have 



324 KENILWORTH CASTLE. 

imagined, but from its indubitable indications, what event 
it was designed to commemorate. At the first glance, on 
approaching, I stopped suddenly and involuntarily — and the 
next succeeding emotion, instantaneous indeed, was a strong 
and almost irresistible impulse to fall prostrate and weep 
before the spectacle. Had I fallen as unexpectedly upon a 
fresh and actual calamity, of which this was the mere picture, 
it could scarcely, in the first impression, have taken a strong- 
er hold. There lay evidently on a table a corpse, the breath 
of life but just departed, inclining nearly on the left face, 
the frame drawn up and distorted, as an expiring agony may 
be supposed to have done, the whole covered with a sheet 
of the purest and finest linen lightly thrown over — the right 
arm dropping down over the table, exposing only the fingers 
of the hand, which were as white as the sheet itself. At 
the two front corners of the table kneeled two female forms, 
as might be supposed from their slender make, each in posi- 
tions various from the other, and both with their heads 
dropping in their hands and weeping, with no other garb 
but other sheets of the finest and purest linen, thrown 
lightly over their entire frame. At the ends of the table, 
and a step in elevation, kneeled two other female forms, in 
positions still varying from the other two, and each from 
each, their heads also dropping in their hands, and weeping 
— both concealed in the same manner under pure white 
linen — and all the group inclining towards the corpse. Over 
this table and its burden, as if just breaking forth from a 
cemetery behind, another female form, fresh, fair, and joy- 
ous, as the resurrection of the just, unconnected with any 
apparent object except her drapery, is rising triumphant, 
with heaven-directed eyes, with every limb and muscle 
springing and mounting upwards, disregardful of the scene 
beneath her feet. On either side an angel is mounting with 
her, but more slow in flight, both gazing upon her, and one 
of them bearing and clasping in his bosom the infant child. 
And all this done and expressed from the purest marble. 
Who, meeting unexpectedly such a spectacle, would not 
feel it 1 

KENILWORTH CASTLE. 
From Coventry to the borough of Warwick is 10 miles. 
A little more than half this distance towards Warwick is 
Kenilworth. The main road and every feature of the coun- 
try here are truly delightful — enchanting. The ruins of 
Kenilworth Castle are magnificent, as they are venerable. 
Independent of that interest with which Scott has invested 
them, standing in the light of sober history, and in their 
own naked and majestic forms, they are sufficiently attract- 
ive to arrest the footsteps and fix the intense gaze of him 
who, in connexion with their historical suggestions, ap- 



WARWICK CASTLE. 325 

proaches and looks upon them for the first time. Yonder, 
some half mile or more in the distance, as he rides along 
the gently undulating country, the heavy, towering, decay- 
ing, falling, ivy-mantled walls — massive, grand, isolated, 
silent, and exceedingly imposing — appearing to rest partly 
on meadows, groves, and hills, and partly on the clouds and 
sky — burst at once on his view ! Ashe advances and changes 
his relative position, the features and outlines of the object 
that absorbs his attention change also. Imagination gives 
it life, though so long mouldering and dead. It moves be- 
fore the eye — every moment presents some new, living, and 
eloquent expression. The birds are floating over it, and 
lighting on its towers. They have made their nests there, 
and forget not their young ones. 

And that was once the home of a high, proud, and puis- 
sant English lord ! There his haughty queen, the boast of 
English history, was his guest for seventeen days, with her 
court ! What splendour — what entertainments, what prodi- 
gality of wealth — what instruments and means of pleasure— 
what life and animation — what banquetings, revellings, and 
mirth within — what sports without — what demonstrations 
of royalty and princely greatness— have been exhibited 
there ! What a magnificent and perfect thing of human crea- 
tion ivas that ! And what is it now ! So fades the glory of 
this world ! Where is that princely lord 1 W T here is Eliza- 
beth, whom he entertained 1 Where are they who moved 
and figured in that extraordinary, protracted, costly, splendid 
fete \ Was it all pure ! Was it all without sin 1 

Desolation has spread its mantle alike over the grounds 
and over the walls. Silence reigns without and within. 
History tells us what has been there, and Time has written 
upon it all — how irresistible is his dominion ! How great 
the changes of human society ! The change of customs 
and modes of living ! It is instructive — it is melancholy — it 
is the poetry of history. 

WARWICK CASTLE. 
Lady Chapel, in St. Mary's Church, of Warwick, is the 
most remarkable thing of the town — the most remarkable 
of the kind I have seen in England — a curious, superb, little, 
young, chicken church, lying under the wing of the old one. 
I should think that Popery, monkery — the virgin genius of 
Mother Church — had exhausted her own pro-creative ener- 
gies when that was conceived. It might be supposed the 
very end — the last little baby of fancy — -and that fancy will 
never try again. I advise all who go to Warwick to see 
nothing else, and think of nothing else — unless, perchance, 
it be the castle. There lieth the king-maker, the renowned 
Earl of Warwick ; and there lieth the Earl of Leicester. 
Monks have counted their beads there, and thought, per- 
28 



326 CITY OP YORE. 

haps, that the eye of Heaven looked upon them. Certainly 
no one from this world would have thought to search for 
them, if he had not been told there was such a place. 

The beautiful Avon runs under the town, and on its sweet 
banks is built that far-famed castle — the house and citadel 
of the Warwicks. To say that it well deserveth its reputa- 
tion, is perhaps saying enough — especially when one is tired 
of castles, and is willing that they who own them should 
enjoy them. This, however, is by no means a common one. 
It is the most perfect, the most stately, the most picturesque, 
the most romantic of its kind in the British Isles. Windsor 
Castle makes a greater pile ; but the king might well resign 
his own if he could obtain this in barter. The cannon's 
mouth would laugh at such muniments ; but for the age, for 
the periods to which they belonged, it must indeed have 
been a strong hiding-place. He who had once entered its 
gates, and made them fast behind him, might bid defiance 
to a pursuing foe ; he might sleep as quietly as if he had not 
an enemy in the world. It is indeed a wonderful creation 
of man. The castle rises, an impregnable wall, directly on 
the bank of the Avon ; and the entire line of state rooms, 
330 feet, filled with a countless costliness of furniture, and 
a richness indescribable, look out on this sweetly-flowing 
stream, and on the pleasure-grounds and park, which stretch 
far away to bounds not discoverable. The tops of the ce- 
dars of Lebanon, brought and planted there, and majestic 
as in the land of Israel, whose roots fasten in the crevices 
of the rocks at the base of the castle, are under its win- 
dows. It is a nest fit for kings, high and inaccessible, with 
nothing but the beauties and glories of creation to look out 
upon, and all within peace, and quietness, and princely 
splendour. 

The access to the castle, after entering the outer gate, is 
a long, deep-cut serpentine gallery, spacious enough for a 
carriage, walled up to heaven by the natural rock out of 
which it has been blasted, and overhung by the wood. 

THE CITY OF YORK. 

" Of hoary York, the early throne of state, 
Where polish'd Romans sat in high debate ; 
Where laws and chiefs of venerable rule, 
The nobler produce of the Latin school, 
Shone forth — we sing." 

Such is the pompous pretension of the guide-book to the 
City of York. In any thing else but a guide-book — whose 
ministering services are somewhat akin to those of the don- 
key, and the brains of their authors, with few exceptions, 
equally worthy of respect — these lines might possibly strike 
us as being something not altogether un-apropos. 

York is an ancient city built upon the ruins of an ancient 



YORK MINSTER. 327 

city; and the foundations of its ancient and magnificent 
cathedral have been set up in the midst of the foundation 
stones and among the stupendous columns of some other 
magnificent, but now forgotten, monument of the pride and 
glory of man. Some recent excavations for the repairs of 
the minster have exposed the lower sections of the columns 
of some ancient edifice, standing undisturbed upon their 
primitive foundations, and in their first architectural rela- 
tions to each other. Underneath this mighty fabric, the 
history of which in all its earlier parts can itself with dif- 
ficulty be traced, you may walk among the ruins of a like 
and perhaps still greater thing, though distinctly diverse in 
all its features, and belonging to another cycle of the gen- 
erations of men, whose history is forgotten. I cannot de- 
scribe the awe with which I was struck, when, having just 
received my first impressions on approaching and entering 
York Cathedral — having compassed the vast building for 
once, and merely cast a glance upwards now and then as I 
passed along — having crossed the threshold to its inner and 
awful spaciousness, and listened for an hour to the solemn 
chant, the echoing voices of prayer and the word of God, 
as they lifted, rolled, and multiplied themselves among the 
many arches above — having seen and learned just enough 
to know that this great piece of human art could not be 
known in all its history — it is so old and so infinite — and 
then to be conducted downward into a subterranean cham- 
ber, with just light enough thrown in to show us a for- 
est of columns, standing in their original order and place, as 
parts of some stupendous structure, whose history is too 
ancient to have any relation to this other ancient and stu- 
pendous building, which now lifts up itself in awful grandeur 
above these ruins ; — no, I can hardly express my sensations at 
the sight of these subterranean relics, exhibiting such proofs 
of the art, labour, and expense by which the whole thing, of 
which they were parts, was created, and of the importance 
of that generation whose history has principally perished. 
It seemed as if the builders of this old city, and of this 
mountain-like cathedral, in the selection of their site, had 
blundered upon these buried ruins without ever knowing 
what was under their feet — and that mere accident in this 
late day had made the discovery. These ruins, thus expo- 
sed, are directly under the choir of the Minster. 

York Minster, or Cathedral, has been often described, and 
is justly celebrated, as one of the most stupendous and 
wonderful architectural monuments in the British domin- 
ions. There are many others admirable, but this is awful, 
and altogether imposing. One cannot see it, cannot go 
round it, cannot walk within, look up, and survey its won- 
drous greatness and equally wondrous variety, but he is lost, 
bewildered in any attempts to conjecture how many cen- 



328 YORK MINSTER. 

turies it must have occupied, how many hands it must have 
employed, and how much waste of treasure it must have 
cost, in building. At one time he imagines it is enough to 
have occupied all men of all generations. And yet he must 
know it is a small affair among the rest of the works of 
human art. 

The external of this edifice has so many features, that 
one who has but little time for observation cannot pretend 
to be minute in tracing them. He delights to go round and 
round, and receive the general impressions of every new 
glance ; and to catch now and then the more striking and 
admirable minutiae. He sees the waste of time even on 
the rock — how the blasting storms of many centuries have 
blotted out inscriptions, defaced and transformed the stat- 
uary, converted every image into some other image of mon- 
strous shape, and furrowed deeply in every direction the 
hardest materials that have been drawn from the bowels 
of the earth. This massive, towering, and stupendous pile 
has not only become hoary with age, but literally hangs in 
tatters by the waste of its external decorations. 

For all that is within it is vain to attempt the declaration 
of one's respect. Here again a brief inspection must be 
contented with its general impressions. Even though the 
awful temple be revisited day after day for no inconsider- 
able period, there is no diminution, but rather increase of 
interest. The arches and windows of York Minster can 
never be seen enough not to wish to see them again. 

The positions for the endless and ever-varying perspect- 
ive are so numerous, that one can never be satisfied with 
shifting and seeking some fresh delight. While the solemn 
chant is reciting, and the peals of the loud organ are rolling 
through the vaults above, the temptation is great to neglect 
the purposes of devotion, and to walk through the long aisles, 
to observe the peculiar and impressive effect of the multi- 
plication of the echoes of every note and of every word, as 
it floats, and rises, and tumbles along from one region to 
another, until succeeding notes and words, like wave fol- 
lowing wave in the sea, attract the attention, and fill up the 
scope of sensible observation. 

It is known that a large part of York Minster was burnt 
down in February, 1829, by the incendiary torch of a de- 
luded fanatic, who imagined himself commissioned from 
Heaven to reform the Church of England. He was instruct- 
ed, it would seem, to begin at the City of York, and in this 
very striking and impressive way. It happened that the 
beginning of his work was the end. For the poor fellow 
was overtaken, and is now atoning for his temerity in the 
prison of New Bridewell. 

This fellow, whose name is Martin, had secreted himself 
behind a sarcophagus, or some other monument in the ca^ 



YORK MINSTER. 329 

thedral, during the worship of a Sunday afternoon, with 
instruments and apparatus for striking up a fire. The doors 
being closed upon him, he went to work at his leisure, se- 
lected his own hour of the night, and succeeded but too 
well in firing the Minster. It would seem impossible, at 
first sight, to burn such a building. That part of the cathe- 
dral, however, which is called the choir, and which is the 
common place of worship, is a heavy screen of wood (oak), 
connected with the seats, desks, orchestra, and organ. 
Even though this should be burnt down, it might ordinarily 
be expected that the fire would then stop — inasmuch as it 
is so isolated from the rest of the building. But it seems it 
did not stop. By the incendiary's own confession, he col- 
lected books and cushions, and piled them up in the bishop's 
throne, or cathedra, as being the more proper place to com- 
mence his destruction of the kingdom of antichrist. Hav- 
ing seen the fire in good and certain progress, he broke 
through one of the north windows of the transept, let him- 
self down, and escaped- The fire advanced slowly, burning 
all night, and was not discovered till at a late hour the next 
morning, when a part of the roof having fallen in, the smoke 
was seen rising and clouding over the Minster, and the mel- 
ancholy event was too manifest. The choir, the organ, 
and nearly the whole of the building east of the transept 
and within the walls, had become a heap of ruins. The 
transept and the nave remained uninjured — except that parts 
of them were badly smoked. The massive columns were 
extensively dissolved, and large chips and fragments of them 
tumbled down by the effect of heat, and by the concussions 
of the falling roof. Some of the most valuable and most 
interesting of the monuments, erected in honour of the an- 
cient dead, were broken and crumbled in the common ruin. 
The lead, which supported the small panes of those vast 
and painted windows,. executed in such exquisite and inimit- 
able perfection, melted away, and dissolved irrecoverably 
the fair and fantastic vision. The altar and the throne 
(throne of the Archiepiseopal See) were literally burnt to 
the ground — all that was consumable — and the rest was 
covered with ashes, and defaced by the fallen ruins. 

This immense mischief, however, is principally repaired, 
and the glory of the latter house is likely to be greater than 
the glory of the former, except that the marks of its antiquity 
in these portions are necessarily lost, and many of the most 
beautiful and venerable monuments are buried in irrecover- 
able ruin. The new organ is said to be the greatest in the 
world. It was in use in 1832, and by this time is probably 
finished- I saw pipes setting up there which seemed large 
enough, when the muttering thunders should roll through 
them, to shake the foundations of the earth. 

Taking this building all in all, regarding its history and its 
28* 



330 SALISBURY CATHEDRAL. 

architectural beauties and magnificence, looking at its minute 
as well as its grander features, within and without, by close 
inspection and in distant prospect, it is altogether a most 
imposing and most wonderful structure. The farther the 
spectator recedes on the plain, or rises on the distant hills, 
the greater it appears. It is 526 feet long, and the cross or 
transept is 222 feet. The elevation of the central or lantern 
tower, which was intended as a mere basis of a structure 
never yet executed, is 200 feet. Its measurement across, 
being square, is 65 feet. The great east window is 75 feet 
high and 32 broad. The chapter-house holds a like relation 
to the main building, as a lobster's claw to his body. The 
northern aspect, and the two northern towers, are remarkable 
for the multiplication (almost innumerable) and the perfec- 
tion of the carved work, and all manner of historical, legen- 
dary, heathenish, and monstrous imagery, which is thrown 
upon the surface, set in the niches, run in the tracery, and 
made to stick out at all points and angles ; — and one of the 
best things is, that the hand of time has worn off some of 
the ugliest features of these monstrous shapes — they seem 
so incongruously adjoined to what was set up for the house 
of God. It is a noble and an awful front, however. 

York is entirely surrounded by a wall, which is now being 
repaired. There is also in the city a famous ancient tower 
(Clifford's), at this time enclosed by the walls of a new and 
formidable castle, built for a prison. 

The ruins of St. Mary's Abbey are the purest of the kind, 
and make a most advantageous show, from the manner and 
circumstances under which they are preserved. A range of 
beautiful elms has grown up on the exterior of these walls, 
which throw over their pendent branches, so that the slight- 
est breeze waves them along the wall and across the lancet- 
arched windows, presenting an ever-moving scene — a con- 
tinuously dancing image before the eye, of a most peculiar 
and romantic character. 

SALISBURY CATHEDRAL 
Is distinguished for its lofty spire, 410 feet; for the purity 
and uniformity of its architecture, external and internal ; 
and for the warped condition of the columns of masonry 
which support the tower and spire, under the amazing 
weight that rests upon them. That columns of wood, being 
fibrous, should bend and spring by a superincumbent pres- 
sure, would not be strange ; but that masonry should do so, 
and yet not fall, is certainly remarkable. It is frightful to 
stand at the feet of these columns, to think of the weight 
resting upon them, and then look up and observe each of 
them bending ready to be crushed. The only reason why 
it is presumed they will remain, is because they have al- 
ready endured for ages under the same appearances, A» 



ISLE OF WIGHT. 331 

extra fixture has been thrown in for protection, interposing 
a monstrous blemish in the perspective of the transept. 
Aside from this, the pure Gothic of the entire edifice con- 
stitutes one of the rarest beauties of the kind in the British 
Isles. It Avas built in the thirteenth century — the spire hav- 
ing been since added, the top of which inclines 22 inches 
from a perpendicular line, in consequence of the warping 
of its supports. An old man, between seventy and eighty, 
has been accustomed to ascend once in a twelvemonth for 
many years to oil the weather-vane. He gets out at a win- 
dow a few feet below the top, scrambles like a squirrel by 
some iron network at the giddy elevation of four hundred 
feet, perforins his office, and descends with all the self-pos- 
session of a sailor. 



ISLE OF WIGHT. 

In company with a friend from London — to whom I am 
indebted for much hospitality, and many acts of friendship 
not to be forgotten, and who was one of my first, most con- 
stant, and best friends while I was in England — I went, in 
1832, to the Isle of Wight, to tread upon that beautiful gem 
of the ocean. The whole coast of England may be said to 
be lined with steam-vessels. It is hardly possible to get 
out of sight of them on any of the waters which begird those 
isles. The principal ports of the Isle of Wight, Ryde on 
the east, Cowes on the north, and Yarmouth on the west, 
are constantly alive with these smoking and dashing en- 
gines, connecting the island with the nearer and more re- 
mote ports on the mainland. Portsmouth, Ryde, Cowes, 
and Southampton, make a circle, which are visited by a 
constant succession of steamboats almost every hour in the 
day, carrying and dropping passengers, as they run to and 
from this inviting retreat. In summer and autumn it is a 
most animating scene, the island being one of the great re- 
sorts for health and pleasure. 

We ran down Southampton Bay in a pretty style, gazing 
with delight on the shores, villas, gardens, and the mansions 
of noblemen, as they successively opened upon us and re- 
ceded in their turn to give place to other interesting objects 
of the moving panorama ; and then dashed across the sound 
into the safe, commodious, and beautiful harbour of Cowes, 
which is near midway the island on the north side, fur- 
nishing a most secure haven for shipping. The town is a 
fine object, running up from the shore to the elevated 
grounds, and losing itself among the rich and waving foliage 



332 ISLE OF WIGHT. 

of the trees. The harbour divides it into nearly equal por- 
tions, and gradually contracts into the little river of Me- 
dina, which admits small vessels five miles to Newport, the 
capital of the island, with a population of 6,000. Between 
Newport and Covves is a town of barracks, sufficient to 
accommodate a small army, but vacant of course in these 
times of peace. 

Carisbrook Castle, standing on an eminence one mile 
west of Newport, is an old and interesting ruin ; was the 
prison-house of Charles I. ; from the lofty walls of which is 
surveyed one of the most enchanting landscape visions 
which the eye ever beheld. The Isle of Wight, 20 miles 
long and 10 broad, with a coast of 60, is a garden of the high- 
est cultivation, and rolled up into the most irregular and fan- 
tastic undulations of easy and gentle slopes, presenting the 
softest and richest views from every quarter. The keep of 
Carisbrook Castle is one of the most advantageous positions 
to enjoy them. There is a remarkable well in this castle, 
300 feet deep, worked through a solid rock, 90 feet of which 
is filled with the purest water from the spring which was 
found at the bottom. Of course the measurement from the 
top to the surface of the water is 210 feet. The gover- 
nor's house and the old chapel are kept in tolerable repair, 
although religious service has ceased in the sanctuary for 
fifty years, except for the sole purpose of swearing the 
Mayor of Newport into office. I might add, that the tilting 
arena in the castle is now used as an archery by the nobility 
and gentry visiting the island. This ancient custom is get- 
ting to be the fashionable amusement in England, in which 
male and female unite for the trial and perfection of their 
skill. For those who have nothing to do but to kill time, it 
is perhaps one of the most innocent and healthful exercises. 
I cannot imagine, however, that the bow and arrow are 
likely to supersede powder and shot, either for the sports 
of the chase or the more grave encounters of the field of 
battle. More likely, perhaps, that steam will supplant both. 
As yet, Perkins's steam-gun remains daily a thing of exhibi- 
tion for the curious in the British National Gallery of Prac- 
tical Science, West Strand, London. 

I had not imagined, in passing over the delightful vales, 
and crossing the easy hills of the Isle of Wight, that there 
remained so sublime and awful a termination of the scene as 
the lofty and frowning cliffs which bound the southern shore, 
which say to the bold advances of the mountain-wave — 
" Hitherto shalt thou come and no farther," and which are the 
terror of the tempest-tossed mariner, as well as the eternal 
barrier of the ocean. These are indeed a majestic scene, 
and show the mighty hand of their Maker. They are fit to 
look upon the boundless expanse of the mighty waters which 
lie before them, and come dashing their waves and wasting 



ISLE OF WIGHT. 333 

their energies at the base of this unshaken wall. And yet 
it is not altogether unshaken. A soft foundation has yielded 
to the wear of ages, and these stupendous, craggy, and low- 
ering cliffs have again and again bowed themselves, and 
spread along this shore the shapeless ruins of their fall, as 
sublime in their aspects as the lofty walls they have left be- 
hind them. It happened that my companion and myself 
walked over one of these slides one evening, which came 
down in 1799, and brought more than a hundred acres of the 
beautiful land from above ; and as we laboured along over 
the crude ruins and shapeless masses, we were ignorant 
of the event which had occasioned them. Notwithstanding 
it is more than thirty years since, the apparent freshness of 
the violence struck us with amazement, and made us abso- 
lutely fearful lest it should prove that the gaping fissures 
over which we were compelled to stride, and the abrupt jut- 
tings of earth and rock which interrupted our march, were 
the work of that very hour, and the next moment we should 
feel the chaos heaving and rolling under our feet. We has- 
tened onward, and ruin faced us still, and thickened in our 
prospect ! " What is this ! What is this !" we involuntarily 
and simultaneously exclaimed. 

Our amazement did not cease till we had returned to our 
lodgings, and were made acquainted with the secret. For 
nine miles in uninterrupted succession east, the under cliff, 
as it is called, is all made by the same cause, but so old as 
to be beyond the memory of man ; and small farms, roman- 
tic villas, and the tasteful mansions of the rich, are planted 
all along these shapeless ruins, housed from the northern 
blasts by the overhanging cliffs, lifted up midway from the 
sea towards those upper regions, exposed to the genial influ- 
ences of the sun when it shines in its mildness, and to the 
peltings of the ocean storm when it beats upon the shore. 
At one time there is repose, at another the terrible hovvl- 
ings of the tempest. Here it may be said — man has built 
his nest among the rocks, worked the wreck of nature's con- 
vulsions into beautiful and enchanting disorder, and dressed 
these deformities in living verdure. 

The cliffs on the southern shore of the Isle of Wight 
range from three to six hundred feet in elevation, the high- 
est parts of them being about seven hundred feet. The oc- 
cupancy and cultivation of the under cliff, which is gener- 
ally about half the height of the upper one, and composed 
of its ruins, constitute a singular beauty, and demonstrate 
what may be effected by the hand of man, not only for the 
gratification of his taste, but for profit, as many of these 
grounds make excellent and productive farms and gardens. 
They are in souie parts a quarter of a mile wide, and in one 
place there is the village and parish of St. Lawrence — the 
church being a great singularity, twenty feet by twelve in 



334 RYDE. 

its area, six feet from the lower edge of the roof, but in all 
respects perfect, with Gothic windows, painted glass, pul- 
pit, reading-desk, pews, altar, beli, &c. — every part con- 
structed on a proportionate scale, and habitually occupied 
as a place of public worship. 

The Needles, like the Icebergs, shooting up their sharp 
points towards heaven, presenting their awful fronts, jutting 
out their acute angles into the sea, and, like the Icebergs, 
the dread of the mariner, are at the southwestern extremity 
of the island. 

On a second visit to the Isle of Wight, in the summer of 
1834, in company with another friend, with whom I had the 
privilege and happiness to lodge the last fifteen months of 
my residence in London, whose memory is dearer to me 
than that of any other man, and a sense of whose virtues 
will live in my heart while I have being, I made the follow- 
ing notes at our lodgings in Ryde : — 

Warren Cottage stands in one of the sweetest places of 
this charming town. It is situated in the centre of a plane 
inclined towards the east, the bulk of the town being on a 
corresponding declivity to the north. At the foot of this 
plane is a flat lowland of about one hundred acres, called 
Monk's Meads, a few feet above the tide, redeemed from 
the sea, or from which the sea is supposed to have retired. 
They are now making hay in this bottom under my eye — 
a pretty scene. On the rising ground beyond, about half a 
mile, I see the white frocks of six mowers, swinging the 
scythe with a simultaneous stroke. Over the tops of Appley 
Wood, in the same direction with the mowers, are the full- 
spread sails of an India ship, leaving the roadstead under 
easy sail. A little to the left, and almost twenty miles 
across the water, is Chichester Cathedral. Further still to 
the left are Portsmouth and Gosport, with the lines of for- 
tifications on either side of the entrance to the harbour, and 
a forest of whitewashed stumps (mainmasts) of the ships of 
war lying in ordinary. The apparently circular line of Eng- 
land's shore, defined by the reflected rays of the sun from 
the shingle (pebbles) on the beach, with the dark line of ver- 
dure above, and an indistinct range of higher ground far be- 
yond, stretches before my eye some 30 or 40 miles towards 
Brighton, till it sinks beneath the horizon, or is merged in a 
smoky atmosphere. Returning to nearer objects, Appley 
House and wood, immediately on the shore, and within a 
mile, with their various features, are a grateful scene. Ri- 
sing still to the right, and crowning the hill, is St. John's 
Place, the seat of Sir Richard Simeon, M. P., a Jew, as I am 
informed, and as his name might import. His title, however, 
as I suppose, comes by Gentile connexions, and by accom- 
modating his Jewish faith to paganized Christian names. 
His seat is good enough, either for a Christian or a Jew ; and 



RYDE. 335 

I, for one, am much obliged to him for the pleasure it affords 
me in looking at it. It is one of the most desirable places 
in the vicinity of Ryde. 

Ryde is the beauty of Wight, and one of the pleasantest 
watering-places and summer resorts of the very many which 
the coasts of the British islands afford. It is a town of 
4,000 residents, having in addition, at the visiting season, 
from 1,000 to 2,000, principally from London. It lies on an 
inclined plane, on the north side of the island, towards its 
eastern extremity, directly opposite Portsmouth, of which, 
as well as Gosport, and an extended line of the southern 
shore of the mainland, it commands a perfect view. The 
famous roadstead, Spithead, is before this town, where we 
have a constant scene of the coming in and going out of 
shipping from and to all parts of the world. Even while I 
am writing this line, an English frigate is coming to anchor 
before my eyes, having fired a salute as she rounded the 
eastern point of the island, and is now receiving a return-sa- 
lute from the flag-ship Victory, in Portsmouth harbour, on 
the decks of which Nelson ordered his last naval battle, and 
obtained his last victory ; and from my window I hear her 
guns, and see the volumes of smoke ascend. It is about five 
miles distant across the channel, called the Solent Sea, sep- 
arating the island from the mainland. 

Ryde differs from most English towns in not being crowd- 
ed in a heap on narrow streets — is well built — rural in its 
aspects — the whole constituting a great perfection of con- 
venience and of taste. There is a pier running out into the 
Solent Sea one third of a mile, at the extremity of which 
steamers are hourly arriving and departing, connecting this 
town with Portsmouth, Southampton, Cowes, Lymington, 
and other near ports. There is probably no country in the 
world that supports so many public watering-places, and 
other points of resort for pleasure and health, as England. 
The entire circle of the island is lined with places built almost 
exclusively for this object, furnishing every allurement of 
convenience and luxury. The inland watering-places are 
also numerous, and in the appropriate season crowded ; such 
as Bath, Cheltenham, Tunbridge Wells, Leamington, Har- 
rowgate, &c. That so many towns and villages can be well 
supported, and rise from year to year in their importance and 
magnitude, as mere resorts of pleasure, is a notable proof 
of the wealth of the nation, and of the high degree of inde- 
pendence which a large share of the population enjoys. 

ON A STILL DAY. 

London, the place of eternal smoke and fog, where the 
sun and stars are never seen in their glory; where the 
rumbling of wheels and the tramping of horses never cease 
by day or night, Sundays or week-days; where the Sabbath 



336 BOXING. 

morning sees the pleasure-seeking world pouring out to the 
country, and the evening witnesses their return, while all 
the public promenades and parks teem with countless floods 
of immortal beings ; London, that great and noisy Babylon, 
is to me as if it were not. I cannot realize^ its existence; 
I almost forget that I have ever been there. "* I find myself 
planted in the midst of a deep and solemn repose — which 
seems like the repose of the universe. The dark blue sea, 
that stretches out before me on the east, is at rest; the 
winds are at rest ; the ships in the roadstead, and every 
boat that lies on the water, are at rest ; the clouds seem to 
be at rest ; the road below, and the rising grounds beyond, 
with a grove, are at rest : the stretched-out line of the coast 
of England, in the distance, with its towns and villages, its 
cliffs of chalk, and a cathedral spire, all lie in silent repose ; 
this little town and its inhabitants seem to be all at rest ; 
no bustle, no rolling of carriages, no running to and fro. 
How different — gratefully, sweetly different from the Lon- 
don world. I did not think it were possible to be trans- 
planted so suddenly into circumstances so widely at vari- 
ance in the effects they produce upon the mind — from the 
great centre of human society, where there is no Sabbath 
externally, to a remote scene where the Sabbath seems per- 
petual. 

ANOTHER DAY. 

If I had not witnessed a scene to spoil the pleasures of the 
day, I should have been in excellent mood to record some 
of the agreeable impressions I had received in a seaside 
walk towards the eastern extremity of the island, to a little 
hamlet called Sea View, about three miles from Ryde, re- 
turning by an inland route of four miles — making a circuit 
of seven. But just as I had descended the hill, and passed 
the porter's lodge at St. John's Place, near town, I discov- 
ered a crowd of rustics occupying the road a few rods be- 
fore me, apparently in an earnest and somewhat noisy con- 
ference. There were perhaps a dozen men, old and young. 
At the moment, as I came up, two of them stood face to 
face, like fighting-cocks, fending and menacing by signs and 
words, one of them saying — " I'll out with your eyes ;" and 
the other stoutly replying — " Do it." They appeared to be 
about twenty years old. I had scarcely passed when the 
battle begun. 

Boxing is a science in England, and men devote them- 
selves to it professionally. The lower orders of the English 
have a notable taste for fighting. Except with the parties 
who give and take the bruises, it is a public sport, as much 
as horse-racing and fox-hunting. In all the lower ranks of 
life, whenever a trifling dispute occurs between any two in- 
dividuals, old or young, down even to boys of ten and six 



BOXING. 337 

years old, a ring is immediately formed, and every possible 
incitement is employed to set them on. The ring is the 
jury, and the executive authority, to see that the rules of 
boxing, &c. are fairly kept between the parties. This pan- 
elling of a jury is an indirect and singular proof that all this 
part of the community understand the rules — as is a matter 
of fact — and they have a great delight in seeing them well 
kept. 

I never before came into such intimate contact with a 
scene of this kind. The crowd filled the road, and the comba- 
tants were fairly pelting each other as I came upon them. I 
was surprised to find, that instead of being shocked, these rus- 
tics were amused ; instead of endeavouring to separate and 
pacify the antagonists, they considered it their part to order 
fair play, and to stimulate them to do their best. Grave 
men were there, who were doubtless husbands and fathers, 
and who, but for being seen in that place and thus employed, 
might have been thought fit to act the part of jurors at the 
king's assizes, and who very likely had performed that duty. 
And yet they seemed as much interested and animated by 
this scene as any young fellow that was there. The com- 
bat was so earnest, and the knocks so rude and violent as I 
passed, that mere anxiety and sympathy for them, as suffer- 
ers, involuntarily arrested my steps, and forced me, at the 
distance of a rod or two, to look round on this novel and 
strange sight. After a few moments' pounding of each 
other, they were encouraged by the lookers-on, the jurors, 
to rest ; and two men stepped forward, each offering his 
knee to a combatant, and their arms to hold them up. After 
giving them a little space to breathe, they set them on again, 
and cheered them. I felt a powerful impulse to interfere ; 
but a moment's reflection instructed me that I might, as well 
have put my hand between two fighting bears. The second 
round — which I believe is the scientific term — the blood 
streamed from the nostrils of one of them, and he staggered, 
and fell into the arms of one that caught him, and assisted 
him to rest upon his knee for a renewal of the conflict. 
None of them seemed frightened at the sight of blood ; but 
some one dipped his handkerchief in the rill by the side of 
the road, and attempted to wash the blood from his face ; 
but it flowed faster than he could wipe it away. All seemed 
to er. oy the sport; and made their criticisms upon the man- 
ner in which it was conducted. In a moment they were set 
on again, till one was knocked down. He was picked up 
and held till his face was washed from the blood that covered 
it, and they were pushed at each other again, and cheered 
on, when one of them could hardly stand, and he was knock- 
ed down a second time ; helped up, and knocked down again ; 
and again ; till by some law, unknown to me, the battle was 
ended, when both the parties might have been killed by the 
P 29 



338 A RAMBLE. 

violence inflicted on each other. It was indeed a frightful 
scene — barbarous — brutal. I have no apology, nor can I ac- 
count for the fact, that I stopped even a moment to witness 
it. I was taken by surprise ; I was anxious ; I was afraid 
they would kill each other ; I tried several times to go ; then 
turned about under the impression that I ought to interfere. 
But before I could decide to go, or what to do, the affair was 
brought to a close. It was obviously an accidental quarrel ; 
and the spectators seemed to enjoy it very much. 1 should 
have pronounced them in other circumstances sober Isle-of- 
Wight men, of the class of common labourers. It was an 
unexpected, singular, and painful exhibition — a relic of a 
barbarous age — an anomalous accident in the present state 
of civilization and refinement — a prodigious incongruity un- 
der the blazing light and softening influence of Christianity. 

But I must not forget that which is more agreeable. A 
large moiety of the pleasant winding shore, from Ryde to 
Sea View, is built up into a strong stone wall, in front of the 
several estates which border on the sea, and directly in the 
line of high tide. These walls are compact pieces of ma- 
sonry, composed of large blocks of stone, bound together 
with water cement, as firm and immoveable, apparently, as a 
native and undisturbed quarry. This artificial line of wall 
seems to say to the sea, which dashes against its base — " Here 
shall thy proud waves be stayed." It constitutes a pleasant 
terrace promenade, and is a great convenience to the medita- 
tive stroller, if he does not forget where he is, in his poetic 
absorptions, and walk into the sea. There are several en- 
chanting estates, mansions, and villas along this shore, among 
which is St. Clair, belonging to Lord Vernon. 

But we find pleasure and pain where we least expect it. 
I set out for a seashore ramble — was in pursuit of gratifica- 
tion from that specific source. Invoke and pursue pleasure, 
and it takes wings and cannot be found. The tide was up 
and covered the beach ; a hot sun beat upon the shore ; I 
became fatigued in picking my way over the pointed rocks, 
climbing the bank, and getting down again ; and arrived at 
Sea View at last with little relish for the promised vision. 

But before long I plunged into one of the narrow winding 
roads of the Isle of Wight, to return by an inland route, 
fenced by an uninterrupted hedge on either side ; shaded 
here and there by a range, or a grove of elms and various 
shrubbery, perpetually rising or descending the undulated 
surface, swollen often to hills, exhibiting their highly-culti- 
vated sides, marked with the frequent hedge, and studded 
with farmhouses, barns, clusters of hay-ricks, villas, and 
more superb mansions ; occasional peeps of the inland sea, 
specked with sails, and of sections of the mainland, opening 
and closing as I passed along ; a narrow road, scarcely a 
rod wide, and ever devious, like the track of a serpent, so 



MUSICAL FESTIVAL, 339 

that one can rarely see twenty rods either way from the 
point he occupies, except as a break in the lines of hedge 
by which he is walled, or their accidental depression, will en- 
able him to steal his more extended prospects ; a declining 
sun casting the long shadows of the hills over the vales and 
on the opposite sides of other hills, and making deeply dark 
the copses of wood in the west, while it reflected a golden 
light from those in the east; the labourers in the field, 
cultivating the soil and gathering the crops ; the cattle and 
sheep in the pastures, rising from the shades to feed again ; 
the country squire and his family enjoying their evening 
ride, and bowing to the nobleman's carriage as it passes by ; 
the humble farmer and his little daughters in their holyday 
dress, returning from a visit, or going to make one, the 
youngest leading the obedient family dog by a string, uncon- 
scious that there is any thing better in the world than that 
which they enjoy ; all quiet — all happy — all at peace with 
earth and heaven — as would seem. 

There was no sense of fatigue in such a walk, though it 
was four miles long, at the end of a previous three. There 
is nothing in England, nothing in the world like the Isle of 
Wight. But at the end of this, I was doomed to see two 
barbarians pound each other half, if not quite, to death, in 
the midst of a large circle of other barbarians, cheering them 
on, and exulting at the sport. 



THE ROYAL MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT WESTMIN- 
STER ABBEY, 1834. 

The immense assembly, full of expectancy, had risen to 
receive in silence the king and queen, with their retinue, as 
they entered the Abbey, and occupied the royal box and the 
adjoining compartments. It was a grand and brilliant sight 
The fitting up of the Abbey had been so arranged, that from 
all parts the views and various perspective of the assembly, 
as well as of the internal of that magnificent edifice, were 
intensely absorbing. 

The first burst of music was the union of the full power 
of 402 voices and 231 instruments, in all 633 performers, in 
the Coronation Anthem : " Zadok the priest, and Nathan 
the prophet anointed Solomon king ; and all the people re- 
joiced and said, God save the king! long live the king! may 
the king live for ever ! Hallelujah. Amen." 

The whole assembly listened to this standing. I confess 
I was not prepared for such a beginning. It was tremen- 
dous ; it was awful; it was overpowering. My nervous 
P 2 



340 MUSICAL FESTIVAL. 

system was shaken. There were several passages in the 
anthem, under the performance of which, being thus taken 
by surprise, I became exceedingly anxious, lest I should be 
driven thoroughly out of my senses. It seemed as if the 
performers themselves had run wild in ecstasy, and that we 
should all be left crazy in a heap. Sir George Smart's roll 
of white paper, however, the visible symbol which regulated 
the whole, continued to wave in his hand, and beat the time, 
for the confirmation of our faith that he at least was right, 
and thus restore us to our senses. 

Verily, I had no conception that the combination of any 
number whatever of human voices and of musical instru- 
ments could produce such an effect. The Hallelujah and 
Amen produced the sensation of fatigue and exhaustion — 
because of high and intense emotion — and we were all, as I 
believe, glad to sit down and rest. 

Immediately came the Introduction of Haydn's Creation, 
in a solo recitative, by Mr. Bellamy : " In the beginning God 
created the heavens and the earth ; and the earth was with- 
out form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the 
deep." 

This Mr. Bellamy took part in the performances at the 
festival of 1784. He was one of the king's chorister-boys 
at that time, and his life has been devoted to the profession 
of music. He is a base singer of high character. In the 
doing of this part he was evidently embarrassed. His situ- 
ation was peculiar. He was the first that appeared in a solo 
before this imposing assembly, on an occasion which here- 
tofore has occurred but once in an age ; and leading in so im- 
portant a production as Haydn's Creation. He was not, as 
they say, " in good voice." There were moral considera- 
tions which rendered it next to impossible that he should 
be perfectly self-possessed. He could not leave out of sight 
the part he took in that very place 50 years before ; it was 
natural for him to think, " Where shall I be 50 years to 
come ?" — He faltered ; I was afraid he would stop. The 
audience sympathized with him, and he, notwithstanding, 
acquitted himself well. In his subsequent parts he had 
more nerve, and was firm. 

To make music descriptive requires great genius, unless 
the subjects are naturally adapted. It often requires no 
little of imagination to assist the compositor. For example, 
in the chorus — " And the Spirit of God moved upon the face 
of the waters : and God said, Let there be light, and there 
was light." The chief power of description was here spent 
upon the last passage — " Let there be light, and there was 
light." The universal darkness and confusion of chaos be- 
ing imagined, that music alone should force us to see light 
spring up on the face of the deep, and render this darkness 
and confusion visible, is not, to say the least, very natural. 



MUSICAL FESTIVAL. 341 

'Light" is the substantive word, and all the force of 
Haydn's genius was directed to make the repetitions and 
combinations of the music so to bear upon this monosylla- 
ble, as to compel us to feel that there was light — to make it 
first sparkle, and then blaze from the Creator's fiat. Chaos 
being first described, and being before the mind, — Light — 
light — light — breaks upon the ear, in the midst of so many 
combinations, and with such increasing and overwhelming 
power, till the wide, unformed creation is all illumined; — 
nay, not simply illumined, but in a blaze ! 
Before this light — 

" Affrighted, fled hell's spirits back in throngs; 
Down they sink in the deep abyss 
To endless night." 

Then the chorus : — 

" Despairing, cursing rage attends their rapid fall, 
A new-created world springs up at God's command." 

The first line of this couplet, it will be seen, ought to 
present a character of expression entirely different from the 
second, the chief power of which would rest on the words 
" despairing" and " cursing." The ideas conveyed in these 
terms are not difficult to be expressed in music, and were 
well and powerfully done. The succession and contrast 
were beautiful and sublime : — 

" A new-created world springs up at God's command." 

After a solo by a female voice, sweet and commanding — 

" The marvellous work beholds amazed 
The glorious hierarchy of heaven—" 

one may imagine — or rather, I should say, try in vain to 
conceive — the effect of the grand chorus of voices and in- 
struments : — 

" Again the ethereal vaults resound 
The praise of God and of the second day." 

But I must not claim the attention of my readers for a 
particular account of this amazing performance. I cannot 
forbear, however, to distinguish two or three other passa- 
ges ; and while I do it, I feel rebuked with the thought that 
distinction here is injustice. It seems, however, as if the 
satisfaction with which I revert to any of these parts, and 
mention them to others, would be enjoyed by them. 

The chorus proclaiming the third day — 

" Awake the harp, the lyre awake, 
In triumph sing the mighty Lord ; 
For he the heavens and earth 
Hath clothed in stately dress," 

was grand. 

Mr. Braham (Abraham, a Jew) is the greatest singer in 
29* 



342 MUSICAL FESTIVAL. 

Great Britain, perhaps the greatest in the world. After 
his recitative — 

" In splendour bright is rising now the sun, 
And darts his rays ;" &c. 

and the corresponding passage of Scripture, the chorus 
again burst upon us with overwhelming power : — 

" The heavens are telling the glory of God : 
The wonder of his work, displays the firmament — " 

alternated some several times by a trio. 
The solo— 

" On mighty pens the eagle wings 
Her lofty way through air sublime," &c. 

was exceedingly enchanting. 

The following chorus was awfully grand, and well suited 
to the completion of the work of Creation : — 

" Achieved is the glorious work ; 
Our songs let be the praise of God ; 
Glory to his name for ever; 
He sole on high exalted reigns. 
Hallelujah." 

A scene in Paradise concludes the Oratorio. 

Duet — Adam and Eve. 
" Graceful consort at thy side, 

Softly fly the golden hours. 

Every moment brings new rapture 

Every care is put to rest. 

Spouse adored, at thy side 

Purest joys o'erflow the heart. 

Life and all its powers are thine, 

My reward thy love shall be. 
The dew-dropping morn, O how she quickens all ! 
The coolness of even, how she all restores ! 
How grateful is of fruits the savour sweet ! 
How pleasing is of fragrant bloom the smell ! 
But, without thee, what is to me the morning dew, 
The breath of even, the savoury fruit, the fragrant bloom ? 

With thee is every joy enhanced, 

With thee delight is ever new. 

With thee is life incessant bliss, 

Thine, thine it whole shall be." 

Recit. — Uriel. 
" O favour'd pair, still happy in your love, 
Live and be blest ! but first of all, 
Him, whom to love is to obey, 
With reverence seek and holy fear." 

Chorus. 
" Praise the Lord of earth and sky, 
Utter songs of adoration, 
Heav'n and earth and all creation, 
Sound Jehovah's praise on high. 
The lord is great, his praise shall last for aye. Amen." 



handel's Messiah. 343 

HANDEL'S MESSIAH. 

The bill for the fourth and last performance of the Great 
Musical Festival was headed, " By command of her Majesty. 
HandeVs Sacred Oratorio, i The Messiah.' " 

This was the only piece performed on the occasion. It 
occupied just four hours, from 12 o'clock till 4. The other 
performances occupied from three and a half to four hours, 
each commencing at twelve, or as soon after as the king 
and queen arrived. " The Messiah" was the most attractive, 
and Drought together the most imposing assembly, although 
they were all sufficiently remarkable in this particular. 
The Abbey was completely filled at half past 9 o'clock, the re- 
served seats excepted, which were numbered, and waited in 
abeyance to the owners of tickets. The choice of the unre- 
served seats was so considerable as to occasion a great rush 
for a preference, and people were willing to wait from two to 
three hours before the commencement of the performance, 
and to sit four hours afterward, to gain such an advantage. 
The orchestra began to fill about half past 10, and at 11 the 
loud and solemn organ filled the entire Abbey with its various 
notes and thundering peals, rolling through the lofty arches, 
for the purpose of drowning the tuning of the instruments 
— its own notes being the standard. The amazing power 
of the organ could only be appreciated at this time, as in 
the performance it was a mere accompaniment. It was 
capable of drowning the choir itself. As the voice is an 
instrument which God has made, and is always in tune, it 
was not raised at this time. Although the artificial instru- 
ments were all at work during the hour of tuning, scarcely 
one of them was heard. Even their discords were drowned 
by an art which the organist had in creating other discords, 
at the same time that he kept up the notes necessary for 
the tuning of the other instruments. This discordant and 
tremendous jargon was itself an interesting exhibition. At 
times, it seemed as if it would carry away the roof and 
break down the walls of the vast edifice. From 11 to 12, 
the reserved seats were all filled, and precisely at noon the 
king and queen made their entrance, and the overture com- 
menced. 

The order of the classification of Scripture in the Messiah 
is historical, comprehending as nearly as possible the entire 
work of redemption, from the beginning to the consumma- 
tion of all things. First, the prophetic announcement ; next, 
the nativity and character of the Messiah ; thirdly, his suffer- 
ings ; fourthly, his triumphs and return to heaven ; fifthly, the 
publication of the gospel ; and lastly, the resurrection of the 
dead and his state in heaven with the redeemed. 

I will only notice a few passages. Distinction would be 
injustice, if it were to be understood that every part was not 
intensely absorbing. 



344 

The passage beginning, " O thou that tellest good tidings," 
&c, ending with "Arise, shine," &c., being a chorus, was 
transporting. 

But never — never shall I forget the part, " For unto us a 
child is born ; unto us a son is given ; and the government 
shall be upon his shoulder ; and his name shall be called" — 
Ah, what ? — so wonderful was the transition at this point — so 
overpowering was the burst of every voice and every instru- 
ment, with the full power of each and all combined, as they 
passed from the previous soft and often repeated strains, as 
if they could never leave them, till at last, when expectation 
was spent, and the soul made contented to remain rapt in 
the harmonies by which it was enchained, heaven itself 
seemed suddenly, in an instant, to have opened its por- 
tals, pouring its full and inexpressible exclamation down 
to earth : — " Wonderful /" — " Counsellor !" — " The mighty 
God!" — " The Everlasting Father !" — " The Prince of 
Peace!" — And over, and over, and over again, they dwelt 
upon the peal, as if they had got to their everlasting home — 
as if nothing could draw them away. Then back they re- 
turned : — " For unto us a child is born," &c. — that they 
might fall again, with higher ecstasies, on the more de- 
lightful theme — "Wonderful!" — and each time they passed 
the mighty transition, it was no less amazing, but the more 
so ; the wonder increased. 

Nothing but that inimitable pastoral symphony which fol- 
lowed, assisted by every instrument in the band, and yet so 
soft and soothing that one might easily imagine it was dis- 
tant and heavenly music, softened by the length of its pas- 
sage — nothing else could possibly have let us down, without 
violence, from those sublime ethereal regions into which we 
had been raised. I had often, a thousand times, thought, 
that the simple eloquence of this passage, as it presents it- 
self to the eye on the sacred page, could never be improved. 
But He that formed the eye made also the ear. He gave us 
no faculty in vain. He that seemed " all glorious," as his 
names had been read, is more glorious and more wonderful 
when his " Wonderful" names are sung. As if his glory had 
been concealed, the curtain was now withdrawn, and it 
seemed to burst upon us in all its fulness ! 

What a preparation for the strain — "There were shep- 
herds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by 
night. And lo ! the angel of the Lord," &c. 

lt And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of 
the heavenly hosts, praising God, and saying ; 

GRAND CHORUS. 

" Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth, good- 
will towards men !" 
In the passage representing the sufferings of Christ, heav- 



the king's levee. 345 

en and the universe seemed wrapped in a deep, portentous 
gloom ! 

Then came the triumph, by the principal singers, and 
semi-chorus : " Lift up your heads, O ye gates," &c, until 
they came to the last clause : " He is the King of glory ;" 
which burst upon us in full chorus, in strains so loud and tri- 
umphant, and so long protracted, as to compel us to share in 
the victory ! 

The passage commonly called the " Hallelujah chorus," 
— " Hallelujah ! for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth. 
The kingdom of this world has become the kingdom of our 
Lord and of his Christ ; and he shall reign for ever and ever. 
King of kings, and Lord of lords. Hallelujah !" rose so 
high above all the rest, that language is utterly inadequate 
to express the difference. The " King of kings ! and Lord 
of lords !" was worthy of a better world than this ; and the 
final " Hallelujah," enough, one would think, to fill the arches 
of heaven, as if it were sung by the universe in separate 
worlds, each world a separate choir, and each choir regard- 
less of every other in their movements, and rivalling all in 
their efforts to render praise ! 

When they came to the final passage, " Worthy is the 
Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by his 
blood — to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and 
strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing." — " Blessing 
and honour, and glory and power, be unto him that sitteth 
upon the throne; and unto the Lamb, for ever and ever, 
Amen" — the king and queen and all the assembly rose. The 
effect was electrical and sublime. It seemed most suitable. 
It would have been profane to remain seated. It was a 
doxology never to be forgotten. The " Amen" continued 
long and loud, reiterated in a thousand varying forms, as 
if by ten thousand voices unwilling to close the song. 



THE KING'S LEVEE AND THE QUEEN'S DRAW- 
ING-ROOM. 

The difference between a levee and drawing-room is, that 
the former is held by the king, at which he receives dele- 
gates from public corporations for any purpose they may 
have in view, whether to profess their respect and attach- 
ment to his person and government, or to petition for any 
acts of grace at his hands, or any other lawful object ; to re- 
ceive the members of his government and the various offi- 
cers of state in a social manner ; to admit into his immedi- 
ate presence, and be honoured with the respects of, all for- 
P3 



346 

eign ambassadors resident, at his court; to honour distin- 
guished strangers that may be presented ; to give access into 
his presence to the various orders of nobility and to distin- 
guished commoners, to officers of the army and navy, to 
bishops and clergy, and to such other men of eminence as 
may be entitled to this privilege, on account of their rank, 
or public service, or distinction as travellers, men of letters, 
science, arts, &c. A levee is not a fete, but a social inter- 
view — a great state pageant — a momentary display of royal 
magnificence — for the confluence of all that is great, splendid, 
and gorgeous around the throne of earthly majesty — for the 
concentration of great men in their best dress and show in 
an hour of leisure. Nor is the occasion merely social. 
Privileges are solicited by public corporations, and bestow- 
ed ; honours and dignities conferred upon individuals ; fa- 
vours granted ; and such other acts of condescension, grace, 
and courtesy rendered, as are consonant with the exercise 
of the best feelings of the various and high relations group- 
ed on such an occasion. From the levee the queen and all 
her sex are excluded. It is held about once a week during 
the session of parliament, like that of our president at the 
City of Washington, though there is some difference be- 
tween the two things. 

The drawing-room is ostensibly held by the queen, and 
is always the next day after a levee, though not so fre- 
quent. There is all the difference between a levee and a 
drawing-room, which the presence of the female sex, with 
a queen at their head, themselves queenlike in dress and 
bearing, can impart to such an assemblage, convened in the 
most magnificent apartments, where hosts of men and 
women, arrayed in the richest apparel that earth and its 
treasures can afford, float along in crowds — borne to the 
place in the equipage of princes, pouring in columns into 
the palace of a king, where the sword and epaulet, stars 
and ribands, the ermine and mitre, the sparkling of precious 
stones and the waving of plumes, mingle together in a sea 
of splendour, which might admonish one that the gorgeous 
fabrics and rich gems of the east had combined with the 
arts of the west to pour into one centre all the magic of 
their created beauty and effulgence. 

Both the one and the other are great state occasions, prin- 
cipally for social purposes ; and yet not social in the sense 
of a close intimacy; but for that intercourse, where mind 
acts on mind in agreeable and easy circumstances of the 
greatest possible display of this world's wealth, and of state 
splendour — where all the means of this species of excite- 
ment converge to one focus, fire the mind to purposes of 
ambition, and stir up the affections to a vague intensity after 
some imaginary good, supposed to be connected with these 
distinctions. It is understood to be court effect in the sense 



347 

of stage or theatrical effect. It is show — as my friend said 
— " an apparition." And it is something more than an ap- 
parition. There is magic in it, indeed, but it is the magic 
of reality. To distinguish it from other social occasions, it 
is a state machinery for state purposes. In these circum- 
stances men feel that they are related to each other by high, 
mysterious, and undefinable ties. And one who had seen 
it all — and seen it too in its greatest splendour — inscribed 
upon it, " vanity of vanities — all is vanity." 

Court etiquette renders to resident ambassadors special 
honour. They have precedence in all things, not only as 
guests, and as being entitled to the rites of hospitality, but 
because it is the interest of one government to pay respect 
to the representatives of others with whom they have friend- 
ly relations. To go to court with an ambassador, and to 
be presented by him, is to go under the greatest advantages ; 
it is to receive all the honour which royal courtesy pays to 
a nation in amity. The ambassador (and in the absence of 
a minister the charge d'affaires acts in that capacity) always 
has what is called the entre for state occasions, which is a 
privileged ticket, goes to the palace by a select route, his 
carriage drives into the ambassadors' court, he is admitted 
by the portrait-gallery, and joins the diplomatic corps in the 
ambassadors' anteroom, in company with princes, dukes, 
noblemen of distinction, and high officers of government. 
Ambassadors are the first admitted into the royal presence, 
and it is expected that they will wait around the throne, or 
near the person of the king or the queen, during the cere- 
monies of a levee or drawing-room. To be presented by 
an ambassador, therefore, is to participate in all his rights 
of precedence— and to enjoy the benefit of that information 
which he is capable of giving of persons and transactions. 

Having made all necessary arrangements, and received 
suitable hints, I repaired to the residence of Mr. Vail, our 
charge d'affaires at the court of St. James, by whose polite- 
ness I was presented to the king and queen. At a quarter 
before 2 o'clock we stepped into his carriage, drove down 
Bond-street, across Piccadilly, into St. James's-street, where 
the usual crowd had assembled in the vicinity of the palace ; 
and we were soon whirled into the ambassadors' court, 
where carriages were arriving in rapid succession, and let- 
ting down persons of distinction. Immediately before us 
was the carriage of Prince Talleyrand. We waited, of 
course, till he had alighted, which, with him, in the decrep- 
itude of his age, and the goutiness of one of his feet, is not 
so easy or expeditious a matter. By the kind assistance, 
however, of the many hands that were ready to serve him, 
he was out on the pavement in a reasonable time. Our- 
selves, more sprightly, were soon at his heels. Out of re- 
spect to him, and quite to my own gratification, we kept 



348 the king's levee. 

hanging on his rear, and waited for the slowness of his 
movements up the broad stairway, and around into the por- 
trait-gallery. Having arrived in the centre of the gallery, 
the prince stopped and wrote his own name on a blank card 
at the table of the reporter. We left ours at the same mo- 
ment, and followed him into the room of George the Third, 
one of the state apartments, and which, on occasion of a 
levee and drawing-room, is the anteroom appropriated to 
foreign ambassadors and ministers, and to those who have 
the privilege of the entre. 

I had the best opportunity of observing Prince Talleyrand 
for two successive days in the same apartment, and often, 
in the transpositions of the crowd, standing by his side. 
He is a short, small man; his head emaciate, pale, and 
housed in a wig; one of his feet always muffled up and 
dressed for the gout ;* he totters on his staff, is cheerful, 
and apparently happy. And is this Talleyrand, thought I ? 
Talleyrand ? The very man 1 I had seen him before, how- 
ever, but not with the same opportunity of getting an im- 
pression of the living reality. Those who have seen the 
caricatures of him in the shops would recognise him any- 
where. It is remarkable how these caricaturists will hit 
off the main points of the distinguishing features of the per- 
sons they take. 

The state apartments principally occupied on these occa- 
sions are three : viz., Queen Anne's room, George the Third's 
room, and the Throne room. The king's closet is of course 
in use. These four are the grand state-rooms of the palace. 
Those who have not the entre are required to wait in Queen 
Anne's room, the first in order on the east, till the more 
privileged corps have been received into the royal presence. 
Some of these, not a few, are sprigs of nobility ; a great 
proportion are epaulet gentlemen, of rank, and probably of 
merit ; men high on the civil list are there, strangers of re- 
spectability are there ; clergymen, jurists, men of literature, 
science, and the arts ; and if we speak of both days, all the 
men and all the women in that apartment might be taken, 
in any other place, for princes and princesses. 

These apartments are in a line, east and west, looking 
into the gardens of the palace on the south. At right an- 
gles on the north, nearly in the centre, is the long gallery 
of portraits — portraits of the royal line — which serves as a 
passage of ingress and egress on these occasions, and also 
connects the banqueting-hall and other parts of the palace 
with the state apartments. Adjoining the throne-room, on 
the west, is the king's closet. 
The throne-room is the place of reception ; the adjoining 

* It has been suggested, that this foot of Talleyrand is cloven, and that 
he came legitimately by it. If this be a fact, it may furnish the key to his 
history. 



the king's levee. 349 

apartment, George the Third's room, is occupied by foreign 
ambassadors, ministers, nobility, and other distinguished 
personages ; Queen Anne's room principally by commoners 
and strangers, until the time has come for a general min- 
gling. 

It happened that the Duke of Wellington appeared in his 
robes, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, accompa- 
nied by a respectable corps of the academical and chief dig- 
nitaries, also in their official robes, for the purpose of pre- 
senting a petition to his majesty, that he would graciously 
be pleased to put a stop to the impertinences of the dissent- 
ers, and to resist their unreasonable and arrogant claims. 
The duke's robe was a new one, with some yards of train, 
all of black satin, and not a little heavier for the gold that 
was laid along its borders, from the collar to the end of the 
train. The train of a robe is a troublesome and inconvenient 
thing to manage by men or women, and is always in the 
way of somebody's feet. They have the privilege, how- 
ever, of carrying it on the arm, except in the presence of 
majesty. 

After the company had been half an hour in waiting, the 
doors of the throne-room were opened, displaying his ma- 
jesty on the throne, supported by members of his family and 
high officers of state, and a guard of the honourable corps 
of gentlemen at arms were marched in, forming two ranks 
from the foot of the throne to the door, between which the 
Duke of Wellington entered at the head of his academic 
corps, all making obeisance as they approached the throne. 
The petition was read audibly and distinctly by the duke, 
and his majesty nodded gracious signs of attention. This 
ceremony being ended, the duke, his academic staff— a new 
sort of staff for him — and the guard, retired, when the cen- 
tre door was closed, a side one thrown open, and a call 
made for the foreign ambassadors and ministers ; where- 
upon ambassadors and ministers took rank according to 
seniority of residence at the court, and prepared to pay their 
respects to the king. The king had taken his station near 
the door, in front of the first window ; the lord chancellor 
(Brougham) held the purse, standing motionless, like a 
statue, a very unsuitable office for him ; his majesty being 
surrounded and supported by those appointed to wait upon 
his person on such occasions, the Dukes of Cumberland and 
Gloucester being among the number. 

The king takes his station in the throne-room on his feet 
and uncovered, at a point most convenient to receive his 
company, in like manner as the President of the United 
States on the same occasion. He does not give his hand. 
The salutation of the parties, as they meet, the king being 
always one, is the best bow they can make — a series of 
bows, concluding with a conge from the king, differing from 
30 



350 the king's levee. 

other bows by a peculiarity more easily recognised than 
described, which signifies — " You may pass on." His ma- 
jesty, of course, cannot speak to every one, and in the ma- 
jority of cases the bow of reception and of conge immedi- 
ately succeed each other. With most of the foreign am- 
bassadors and ministers he has a word or two ; but he can- 
not have time to speak to one in a score of those who ap- 
proach him on such an occasion. Yet the opportunity of 
observing the king's form, features, and manner, is excel- 
lent. 

I cannot claim the honour of having held a conversation 
with his majesty. When I was presented, I happened to 
stand very close to him, within two feet, or eighteen inches. 
He received my name from Mr. Vail, with such particulars 
as were proper to be mentioned, then turning to me, made 
several very low bows, the marked civility of which com- 
pelled me to attempt some like courtesies in return ; and had 
we not both stepped back a little to give space for those arcs 
of circles described by our heads, we certainly should have 
bumped rather unpleasantly. Immediately on passing the 
king, I returned to mingle with some sprigs of nobility, 
strangers, clergymen, and others, who had the privilege of 
the entre, but did not belong to the diplomatic corps. The 
doors to the throne-room being open, we could still see what 
was passing there without difficulty. I took my station in 
the recess of a window, where I could see the king receive 
his company, and observe his manner. By this time all that 
had been admitted with the entre had paid their respects to 
his majesty, and immediately the door of the other room 
was opened to admit the commonalty. 

The levee was uncommonly full. As a consequence, the 
doors being opened, the column from Queen Anne's room, 
pouring through the room in which I stood into the presence 
of majesty, soon occupied the space, dense and impenetra- 
ble. I was literally hemmed in the recess of a window by 
this current, passing between me and the opposite side of 
the room. For a while I was too much interested in the 
scene to be troubled with the inquiry, How am I to get out % 
After some fifteen or twenty minutes, the monotony of this 
state of existence began to be tedious, and I looked round 
for deliverance, but alas ! not a hope presented itself, unless 
I should adopt the expedient of jumping out of the window 
into the queen's gardens, and make a flight that way. I rose 
on tiptoe, and endeavoured to look through the door on the 
source of this perpetual flood, and it seemed naught dimin- 
ished since it began to flow. The great chamber whence 
they came was still crammed with heads and sparkling 
with epaulets. I began to be absolutely dismayed: How 
shall I get out ? The column grew denser and wider still, 
closely compact as the Giant's Causeway,, as if each body 



351 

were sealed to its neighbour's. However, thought I, there 
is nothing like determination and bravery. If I make a bolt 
to break this column, with a sufficient quantum of physical 
force, they may think I am in distress, and give a passage. 
Whereupon I devoted my head and shoulders to the pur- 
poses of a wedge, saying, " Please let me pass — please let 
me pass," urging my body with as great a momentum as I 
could muster and appropriate. The plan succeeded admira- 
bly well, and I soon made my way through a column of 
eight or ten deep, most of whom carried a sword. Having 
got clear into the centre of the room, I met the same column 
returning on the other side, though, it must be confessed, not 
in quite so close order. 

After having been at the palace a little more than an hour, 
I met Mr. Vail again, and we agreed to retire. As we came 
at the head of the stairs, I heard vociferated before us — 
"American Minister!" till the last I heard of it was without 
in the Ambassadors' Court. The meaning was, as I hardly 
need say, " The American Minister is ready for his carriage." 
Or, " Bring his carriage." — " Minister of Wurtemburg !" — 
" Minister of Wurtemburg !" was also passed along at the 
same time, who happened to be in our company. Several 
names rung through the galleries and corridors, passing from 
throat to throat as we went out. At the levee we had to 
wait but a moment for our carriage ; but on retiring from 
the drawing-room there were at least a dozen distinguished 
personages, with ladies, waiting for their carriages at the 
door, among whom were Prince Esterhazy, of Austria, 
Lord Londonderry, the Grecian Minister, Spanish Ambassa- 
dor, Dutchess de Dino, niece of Talleyrand, &c. &c. ; all of 
whose names repeatedly rolled down the broad stairway as 
often as was necessary, and probably a little oftener, from 
the officious pride of the men in waiting, who were ani- 
mated in hearing the sound of their own voices pronoun- 
cing such distinguished names, in the very presence of 
those who bore them. Successively the carriages drove to 
the door and carried them off. 

The dress of the men, both at the levee and drawing- 
room, is generally professional, except that at the latter all 
are required to appear in small-clothes and silk stockings. 
Some of the epaulet-men, however, came to the drawing- 
room, as I can certify, in boots and spurs — of the latter of 
which I frequently stood in great fear, on account of their 
length. Military and naval men also appear in full uniform, 
wearing a sword, which, with cavalry, is an inconvenient 
and noisy thing, dragging along the floor. Generally the 
dress on levee days is the public official costume of the per- 
sonages, ranks, professions, and stations represented. At 
the drawing-room there is a substantial correspondence as 
above, but in parts it is light and airy, and adapted to a pro- 



352 the king's levee. 

miscuous assemblage of ladies and gentlemen. On both 
occasions, and in all cases, it is rich as the parties can afford, 
and often ruinous to them. Some of the foreigners at the 
levee were apparently as much oppressed with the gold, not 
to say precious stones and jewels, laid on and wrought in 
their garments, as the ancient knights with the weight of 
their armour of iron and steel. 

I was informed that Prince Esterhazy's coat, which I saw 
on his shoulder at the queen's drawing-room, cost the small 
sum of £100,000, or $480,000, and that every time he wears 
it it costs him £200 to j£300 to make good the jewels which 
are brushed and shaken off in company — not, I suppose, by 
dishonest contact, but by the accidental justling of a crowd. 
As to this last part of the story, it does not seem to me very 
credible that jewels should be so profusely scattered under 
foot. The other parts of the same dress were proportion- 
ately rich, and I should imagine cost no trifling sum. From 
the top of the feather of his cap downward, his whole per- 
son beamed and sparkled with jewels. 

The manners of this prince are very peculiar. He is 
noisy — even boisterous. His voice may be heard above the 
bustle and tumult of a crowd, and every one's attention, in 
company ever so numerous, is constantly challenged by his 
sharp, high-keyed vociferations of " How do you do 1 I am 
glad to see you," &c, with all the common gossip of such 
occasions. I could think of nothing but a spoiled child, that 
had never been schooled into good manners, and who could 
never think that he was disturbing others by his noise. 

It is impossible to make our countrymen, who are notori- 
ous for their love of economy, appreciate the feelings of 
their ministers at European courts, in regard to the mortifi- 
cation they must sometimes suffer in not being able to main- 
tain that equipage and state which corresponds with their 
station. I trust I need not say that I should be farthest from 
advocating any attempts to rival the splendour of the first 
courts of Europe. But there is a medium between extrav- 
agance and what is deemed necessary to respectability in 
the circumstances. One object of a government in main- 
taining ministers at foreign courts is to command respect 
abroad; and in Europe they have not yet learned to distin- 
guish between the star and the breast on which it rests, be- 
tween the riband and the chivalrous spirit it is intended 
to honour. Where appearances constitute a certificate of 
merit, it may be well for us republicans not to disregard 
them altogether, or else to maintain the rigid extreme 
that shall render us as remarkable for our plainness as 
the ambassadors of European courts are for the glitter of 
their livery. Then it might be put to the account of our 
conscience, as in the dress of the Quakers, and we might be 
as proud and as much honoured in this as the Quakers are in 



the queen's drawing-room. 353 

that. But if we pretend to conform in any degree, it is well 
enough, as long as we are able, to appear respectable. 

Mr. Vail, our present charge d'affaires at London, fills his 
place much to the credit of his country, and, as I have reason 
to believe, to the satisfaction of our countrymen who have 
business with him. I observed that he is quite a favourite 
at court His being so perfectly at home in the French lan- 
guage — an indispensable qualification in such an office — 
makes for him an easy intercourse with the entire diplomatic 
corps. The most influential men of all nations are always 
at this court, and it is a thing of no little importance that our 
minister, or charge, should be open to them through the 
medium of a common language. 

Besides Mr. Vail's accomplishments in this particular, 
his modest and amiable deportment is sure to make a most 
agreeable impression on that high and influential circle, 
which knows so well how to appreciate it. He is just such 
an unpretending, yet accomplished and well-qualified servant 
of our country, as we most want abroad. 

THE QUEEN'S DRAWING-ROOM. 

It is not deemed indispensable that resident ministers of 
foreign nations should attend every levee and drawing-room, 
although they are always served with the entre. If they 
make their appearance occasionally, it is accepted as a suf- 
ficient and proper respect to the court. They are very 
apt, however, to be present at the drawing-room, as that oc- 
curs only about once for three times of a levee. It is a pa- 
geant, for which there might naturally be a relish as fre- 
quently as this, with those who like a thing of the kind. 
The excitement is greater, and the scene far more attractive. 
Almost any mind would pall over a levee once a week. 
To have seen it once is to know what it is ; and the motive 
to appear there regularly must be compounded of some 
other ingredients than a mere taste for its display. Nothing 
of this kind, with truly great and noble minds, could seem 
other than a waste of time, if they were doomed to appear 
as mere appendages of the exhibition. Even a drawing- 
room must have some draw-backs from satisfaction by repe- 
tition. Still, however, it is the ne plus ultra of regal state 
and splendour — the most brilliant display of society in the 
palace of a king. 

At half past one we entered the carriage and drove to 
Hyde Park corner, where all who have the entre are requi- 
red to go on drawing-room days, in order to diminish the 
crowd of carriages in St. James's-street, as well as to ap- 
proach the palace by a more select route, passing under the 
magnificent arch of George the Fourth, and down what is 
called Constitutional Hill, although it might be difficult to 
perceive that it is really a descent. A splendid carriage came 
30* 



354 the queen's drawing-room. 

out of Hyde Park, crossed Piccadilly, and passed under the 
arch immediately before us ; and the Dutchess of Kent, with 
two of the royal carriages, attended by an escort of Royal 
Horse Guards, was immediately behind us. Indeed, the road 
was lined with a procession of princely equipages. As we 
approached the palace, the passages were thronged by a 
dense crowd of spectators, but the ways were kept open by 
the attendance and activities of the police and household 
troops. Even the corridors, after we had entered the palace, 
were studded all along by respectable persons, who deem it a 
great privilege to be favoured with a ticket that shall admit 
them to these passages, to gaze at the members of the royal 
family, at the nobility, and others, after they have alighted 
from their carriages, and are passing up to the state apart-r 
ments. When driving through the streets, their heads only 
are to be seen through the windows of their carriages ; but 
when upon their feet, they make a different show, especially 
the females, in the brilliancy of their court-dresses and 
adornments. Even a momentary aspect of that part of the 
fleeting pageant which is to be seen between the outer door 
and the place where they all vanish from these beholders, 
is deemed covetable by persons in high condition of life, 
who, for want of rank, can get no nearer. There is a great 
strife, therefore, even among those who think they are 
something in the world, to see a dutchess, a marchioness, a 
countess, a viscountess, a lady, or a right honourable miss, 
get out of her carriage, and flit away from this brief vision 
into the region where she is to move and be seen only 
among her equals and a certain privileged few. The mass 
are contented with the external glimpses of a court, or are 
obliged to be so. 

We left our names at the reporter's table in the Portrait 
Gallery, according to custom, and arrived in the middle 
state apartment, or George the Third's room, next to the 
throne-room, at a quarter before 2 o'clock. There were 
not many in by this time. 

Soon after we entered the room, the centre folding-doors 
at both ends flew open, and the Dutchess of Kent was an- 
nounced. As by magic, a passage was opened through our 
apartment, and all turned to pay the dutchess respect. She 
entered, being ushered in by the men in waiting, followed 
by the ladies attending upon her, but without the Princess 
Victoria. It would have been especially agreeable if I had 
seen this young heiress presumptive to the British throne 
under such circumstances. The dutchess courtesied and 
bowed with great grace, both to the right and left, as she 
passed through the opened and smiling ranks. She is a 
woman of truly royal bearing : her looks are most interest- 
ing, even charming ; her manners expressing every winning 
grace. No wonder that she is popular ; and if her husband 



the queen's drawing-room. 355 

had lived, she would have been the idol-queen of the na- 
tion. She glided into the throne-room to join the royal 
party, and to support the queen during the ceremonies ; and 
the doors closed behind her. 

The throng in our apartment continued to increase by 
new arrivals for nearly an hour ; and such also I perceived 
was the fact in the east room, until the latter became abso- 
lutely crammed. I hardly need say, that ever}- thing around 
had now become the most brilliant scene I had ever wit- 
nessed — as brilliant, indeed, as the great wealth of the Eng- 
lish nobility, lavished in the richest profusion on the per- 
sons of the fairest of their women, and of their high and 
honourable men, could make ; and this in nowise diminish- 
ed, but increased, by that borrowed splendour which the 
presence of the representatives of the greatest and richest 
nations of Europe added to the general effect. It was a 
dazzling pageant. The East contributed its gems ; Africa 
its snow-white, lofty, and nodding plumes ; the shops of 
Europe furnished the wardrobe, and her arts mingled the 
colours, determined the forms, and fixed the relative posi- 
tion of all the parts of this moving diorama. 

The door to the royal presence opened. An instinctive 
movement seemed to bring all, whose duty it was first to 
offer their respects to the queen, into their proper places. 
I cannot speak positively as to the order in every particular ; 
but the foreign ambassadors and ministers seemed to me 
to take the lead. A plural number of distinguished females, 
however, threw down their trains, and preceded us ; among 
whom was the Dutchess de Dino, niece of Prince Talleyrand, 
and Madame Tricoupi, the lady of the Grecian minister, who 
was now for the first time presented. 

Trains are still in vogue at the English court, much to the 
annoyance and vexation of the ladies ; — or, to pass things 
off in good-nature which cannot be avoided — much to their 
sport. They have often petitioned her present majesty to 
dispense with them, but she is too patriotic. It is a pat- 
ronage of the manufactories and trades. The money which 
they cost comes out of the rich, and goes into the hands of 
those who need it more. The queen, therefore, still insists 
on the train. Not a lady can appear at court without it. 
For this reason, at least, she ought to be popular among 
silk-mercers and dress-makers. 

They who have seen a peacock with a full and proud tail, 
may have a good idea of a lady at court with her train — 
only the latter is longer in proportion than the former. I 
will not venture to say how many yards there is in it, for I 
do not know ; but it is certainly a prodigal use of silk, and 
of whatever other things it may be composed of. Of course, 
it will easily be seen, that a train thrown down to drag must 
be very inconvenient in a crowd. The fact is, they carry 



356 

it on the arm universally, except in the presence of majesty, 
and in the actual performance of ceremonies. Immediately 
as they enter the throne-room, they throw down the train ; 
and having moved forward enough to stretch its length, 
they turn the head first over one shoulder, then over the 
other, to see if it drags well, is right side up, not twisted, 
&c. Or, if they have a train-bearer, as is rarely the case, 
except with the most distinguished persons — they may be 
saved this trouble. Sometimes the ladies help one another. 
It is really quite an ado — " much ado," — to get it well a- 
going, and no little subject of anxiety in all its sweeping 
course. When the exit from the royal presence is made, 
some gentleman in waiting catches up the train, gives it a 
twist or two, and then throws it over the owner's arm. 
There seems to be quite a knack in lifting a lady's train. I 
should not dare to undertake it, without having first gone 
through a course of private lessons. I saw it done in a style 
which might have been worthy of public notice, but for 
more important matters ; and, for aught I know, it is often 
made the occasion of a full discussion in private drawing- 
rooms. 

It must, however, be admitted, that this custom is en- 
forced rather too late in the day ; and that the ladies of the 
English court, so far from having any respect for it, take all 
manner of pleasant ways of showing their contempt. It is 
a singular feature, and no less ridiculous — absolutely and 
thoroughly so. One would hardly suppose it possible that 
it would be endured. 

The king stood where he did at the levee, supported by 
certain lords in waiting on his right, and his brother Cum- 
berland and cousin Gloucester on his left, with a nephew, 
Prince George of Cumberland. The queen stood immedi- 
ately before the throne, a little to the right, supported by 
the Dutchess of Kent and her attendants on the left, and by 
her own personal retinue on her right. The king's dress 
was a scarlet coat and a military uniform ; the queen ap- 
peared in white satin, with a pearl head-dress, worked into 
a form not unlike a crown. 

Our progress after entering the throne-room was exceed- 
ingly slow. I stood opposite the king, with only space for 
one person to pass between me and him, for about ten min- 
utes. The queen was occupied during this while, I believe, 
with Madame Tricoupi, wife of the Grecian ambassador. 
In the meantime the Dutchess of Richmond came between 
me and the king, and talked with him freely. The king 
spoke very low, and I caught but a few words. 

" Poor fellow," said the king to the dutchess, " I am told 
he was very miserable. I was extremely sorry not to see 
him," &c. They appeared to be speaking of the death of 
some person, I know not who. 



THE QUEEN S DRAWING-ROOM. 357 

"And are you in town !" said the king, &c, to the dutch- 
ess. The Dutchess of Richmond is evidently a very supe- 
rior woman. Her looks and manners are exceedingly inter- 
esting. 

Next came Earl Grey and talked with the king, while I 
stood in the same place. The noble earl has a head that is 
worth looking at. As I had a fine opportunity for a close 
observation of the king's countenance for several min- 
utes, while he was engaged in conversation, his features 
seemed to me quite of the benevolent character. 

We at last came in our turn to the queen. She received 
my name, looking alternately at Mr. Vail and myself, and 
very graciously asked " How long I had been in England," 
expressing a wish " that my visit might be agreeable." She 
courtesied, and we passed along to give place to others. 
The queen is very thin in the face — more so than I had ima- 
gined. I had seen her twice before in public — once on the 
day of her coronation. She is not handsome, but from the 
associations which her good reputation suggests, her looks 
are agreeable and interesting. I saw quite an elderly lady 
on the queen's right hand, whose paint, laid upon her cheeks, 
reminded me of nothing so impressively as the wife of a 
Winnebago chief, in the northwest territory of America, 
whom I had frequently seen in 1830, as she came from 
making her toilet over the mirror-surface of Fox river, with 
the aid of an abundance of vermilion. I could positively 
have taken her for the wife of the Indian chief, the other 
parts of her dress and the circumstances of the occasion 
aside. I should think her about 70 years old ! With this 
singular exception — and really it was very remarkable — all 
the persons in attendance on her majesty, male and female, 
appeared in a very becoming manner. The Dutchess of 
Kent, with her ladies and other attendants, was there. The 
foreign ambassadors and ministers took their stations around 
the queen, till all the company had made their obeisance and 
retired. 

Having been presented, and seen in that apartment what 
was permitted to a stranger, I returned to the room whence 
I came, and loitered about an hour, till a large part of the 
concourse had begun to move off. In the meantime I wit- 
nessed a routine not unlike the doings of the day previous, 
but as much more brilliant, and lively as the presence and 
manners of ladies might be expected to make it. When 
all in the apartment to which I was admitted had passed the 
rounds, and paid their respects to the queen, being assem- 
bled again in the same room, the door of the east room was 
opened, as at the levee, and the ticket-people, or common- 
ers, began to crowd forward in a dense column. Those 
who have the entre are supposed to be known at court, and 
require no ticket of admission; whereas those who come the 



358 the queen's drawing-room. 

other way are obliged to leave their cards, and appear bear- 
ing them in their hands, itself a mark of their inferiority. 

" Let us stand here," said a great fat lady to her two 
friends, who stepped with her into the very recess where I 
was hemmed in the day before. Others of the nobility, la- 
dies and gentlemen, especially the first, formed ranks to 
gaze upon the crowd as the door should open. This sort 
of curiosity seemed to me undignified and censurable. I 
think, however, that their object was partly to recognise ac- 
quaintances, and speak with them, as afterward appeared ; 
which very much effaced the unpleasant impression I at 
first received, as if the nobility could amuse themselves by 
making their inferiors a gazing-stock. Notwithstanding this 
relief, the general appearance of this other class was the 
want of a home-like feeling, as if they had never been there 
before. And such doubtless was to a great extent the fact ; 
and they probably expected never to be there again. They 
came to see a show, and were themselves made a show. 
Their betters were arranged in close order, and stood look- 
ing upon them, as if to inspect and criticise their countenan- 
ces, their dress, their every thing. As it seemed lawful unto 
all the rest, I also indulged in the speculation. Occasionally 
I had the pleasure to witness very cordial and lively greet- 
ings between the more noble, at least more privileged, and 
their inferiors. There was an obvious difference between 
the dress of the nobility and the commoners, especially 
among the ladies, reckoning the mass of each class : that of 
the former being apparently fresh from the shops, and fitting 
well upon them, while that of the latter, in a great majority 
of instances, might well be supposed to have been in use 
before. " Borrowed or hired for the occasion," was an ex- 
planation of the secret of this appearance. The easy bear- 
ing of self-possession and custom in the place, and the open 
manners of the nobility, were other features which distin- 
guished them from that heterogeneous multitude, who came 
there from all conditions of life, as well as from all parts of 
the world. Those who are ever in the best society, and 
whose daily custom in the use of the easiest, as well as the 
most polished modes of social intercourse, are always at 
home in like circumstances. The privileges of their nobil- 
ity make them noble in manners ; and their manners gen- 
erally distinguish them from other classes. A levee and a 
drawing-room exhibit this difference very manifestly. There 
are many commoners, however, of both sexes, who will not 
suffer in any respect by a comparison with the proudest of 
the nobility. They have wealth, they have mind, they have 
culture, which can afford to dispense with the distinctions 
drawn between themselves and those who are nominally 
above them. But still there is generally a manifest differ- 
ence between the highest class in England and those who 



the queen's drawing-room. 359 

ape their manners, and covet to appear in the same places. 
1 speak of fact ; the propriety or justice of maintaining those 
distinctions which make these differences in character and 
in society, is another question ; and as a republican, nay, as 
a man, as a Christian, I would protest against it. It is not 
good. 

After being at the drawing-room nearly two hours, the 
scene began to be irksome, and I was glad to meet with Mr. 
Vail again, and to find him ready to retire. As we passed 
through the portrait-gallery and down the stairs, the pas- 
sages were all thronged, and wellnigh choked, if such light 
things could make an obstacle, as the sylph-like forms and 
brilliant displays of the women waiting for their carriages, 
smiling at the scene which themselves created, and making 
a vast deal of pleasantry and ridicule of the trains which the 
queen obliged them to carry, and which so much incommo- 
ded their exit. We waited long and patiently in company 
with some of the most distinguished personages, male and 
female, not only of England, but of Europe, before the turn 
came for the carriage of " the American minister ;" when at 
last we were whirled away through a dense and gaping 
crowd in the passage, kept open by the troops and police, 
into St. James's-street, itself full of equipages waiting to 
take up their burdens, or, like ourselves, returning to more 
quiet abodes. 

There is no city in the world that displays an equipage at 
all to be compared with London. Paris is nothing in this 
particular. Scarcely a decent carriage is to be seen in 
Paris during the ordinary promenades that one makes in 
the streets. But every day in London exhibits a parade of 
this kind, demonstrating a wealth that is wide-spread, im- 
mense, and inexhaustible. More especially does a Levee 
and Drawing-room Day pour forth a splendour of this de- 
scription, which, for the number of carriages, the richness 
of livery, the excellence of horses, and the tout ensemble of 
the picture, though ordinary for that metropolis, may yet be 
the admiration of the world. There is nothing like it in 
any other quarter of the globe, and probably never was. 



THE END. 



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